In this task, you're given an article and an answer. Your task is to generate the question for the answer based on the given article.
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Question: Article: The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. That is why she fascinates me--why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her. Today is difficult. The ward is full of patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again. "Hello, Jasmine," I say, as if greeting myself. She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep. She has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I choose my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be. "I have little time today," I tell her, touching her hair. With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda , all of them. Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it. "Your father may be here soon," I say. "Last week he said he would come." Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps. It is two months since the incident on her father's fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter's body. "Jasmine," I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it. Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting s. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word--then sank again, this time into coma. Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said. When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man. Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one. I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished. I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the seagulls. "Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can't you hear it calling?" Nothing. The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine's father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me. Even in death, my own child had my father's smile, and Jasmine's will have this man's. I know it. He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine's eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
Answer: Jasmine's father is very pitiful.

Answer: Why does the author show special sympathy for Jasmine?

Question: Article: People think what I do is so wonderful because I interview stars. And I have to admit that when I first started working at Sassy in 1987 I was excited about that part of my job for the first couple of months,anyway. Then I noticed how stars would fool me around for months. I could never get enough time with a star to find out anything interesting, and some acted just simply rudely. I started hating the way I was treated, and I was really disappointed to see that these people I had worshipped before were pretty ordinary. So I decided I would just tell the truth instead of keeping up their myths .If the star was a bad guy, I would say so. If I thought anyone was stupid, I did not hold back that information. I thought readers would appreciate that kind of honesty. Surprisingly, many of them hated me for it. I have gotten so many attacks on my character. In their eyes,being famous is everything, even more desirable than being truly creative and talented Why do we need stars? In fact, the media created stars to satisfy our basic need for gossip .Over time, talking about people we have never met and we are never likely to meet has become what we are crazy about. Thus, some people are more interested in the personal lives of the stars than in the lives of their own family and their own friends. That is why it is so ridiculous when a star wants to discuss only his or her work in an interview -as we care. We want the dirt on their personal lives. There is another reason we worship stars. As a whole, our society is not as religious as it once was. It seems that people need something to fulfill them the way religion once did. Star worship exists as an unfulfilling desire for true heroes. We make them stars, but then their reputation makes us feel unimportant, and we truly feel better about ourselves when they die. I am part of this whole process. No wonder I feel soiled at the end of workday.
Answer: They are usually honest and polite,

Answer: What are the stars like according to the author?

Question: Article: Shakespeare's Sister Let us imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith. Shakespeare himself went, very probably -- his mother was an heiress -- to the grammar school, where he may have learnt Latin -- Ovid, Virgil and Horace -- and the elements of grammar and logic. He was, it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps shot a deer, and had, rather sooner than he should have done, to marry a woman in the neighborhood, who bore him a child rather quicker than was right. That escapade sent him to seek his fortune in London. He had, it seemed, a taste for the theatre; he began by holding horses at the stage door. Very soon he got work in the theatre, became a successful actor, and lived at the centre of the universe, meeting everybody, knowing everybody, practicing his art on the boards, exercising his wits in the streets, and even getting access to the palace of the queen. Meanwhile his extraordinarily gifted sister remained at home. She was as adventurous, as imaginative, as curious to see the world as he was. But she was not sent to school. She had no chance of learning grammar and logic, let alone of reading Horace and Virgil. She picked up a book now and then, one of her brother's perhaps, and read a few pages. But then her parents came in and told her to mend the stockings or mind the stew and not moon about with books and papers. They would have spoken sharply but kindly, for they were practical people who knew the conditions of life for a woman. Soon, however, before she was out of her teens, she was to be engaged to the son of a neighboring wool stapler . She cried out that marriage was hateful to her, and for that she was severely beaten by her father. Then he ceased to scold her. He begged her instead not to hurt him, not to shame him in this matter of her marriage. He would give her a chain of beads or fine dresses, he said; and there were tears in his eyes. How could she disobey him? How could she break his heart? The force of her own gift alone drove her to it. She made up a small parcel of her belongings, let herself down by a rope one summer's night and took the road to London. She was not seventeen. The birds that sang in the woods were not more musical than she was. She had the quickest fancy, a gift like her brother's, for the tune of words. Like him, she had a taste for the theatre. She stood at the stage door; she wanted to act, she said. Men laughed in her face. The manager -- a fat, loose-lipped man -- howled with laughter. He roared something about puppies dancing and women acting -- no woman, he said, could possibly be an actress. She could get no training in her craft. Could she even seek her dinner in a bar or roam the streets at midnight? Yet her genius was for fiction and lusted to feed abundantly upon the lives of men and women and the study of their ways. At last -- for she was very young, oddly like Shakespeare the poet in her face, with the same grey eyes and rounded brows -- at last Nick Greene the actor-manager took pity on her; she found herself with child by that gentleman and so -- who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and confined in a woman's body? -- killed herself one winter's night and lies buried at some cross-roads where the omnibuses now stop outside the Elephant and Castle. That, more or less, is how the story would run, if a woman in Shakespeare's day had had Shakespeare's genius.
Answer: She was cared for but was expected to live a girl's life.

Answer:
What can we infer from Judith's teen life?