input with options: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. Question: Manny was probably driving: Answer:
OPTIONS:
- too slow
- the speed limit
- not enough information
- too fast
output: not enough information

input with options: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: I remember back in the late 1970's when I first started investing in property as a young guy, being taken to a house that felt EXTREMELY cold, strange, and rather chilling. Okay it was an older house that need some renovation work, but there was something about the place that just did not seem right. But despite that, it was available for purchase at what seemed to be a very attractive price always a good starting point. Anyway, the real estate agent finished taking me around the property answering the questions that I had, and I left with a plan to do some costings before making a decision. But something was niggling me and making me feel a little uncomfortable, so I decided to investigate the property further. A couple of days later I was around at a friends house. He was in the Police force and as it happened he was in the same neighbourhood, I mentioned this particular property that I was looking at buying. He asked me the actual address after which he 'kindly' informed me that that that house had been the scene of a murder 6 months previously. It turned out that the property had been rented to a homosexual couple and that after an argument, one had murdered the other in the bath and then proceeded to cut his head off. Apparently the head was subsequently discovered a week later in the trunk of a car that had been abandoned up by a local golf-course. Less than impressed that the real estate agent had been less than forthcoming with me, I made the decision to not to proceed with the purchase. As they say in the property business 'Location, Location, Location' is always an important factor in determining the value of a property. However despite that being a good location, it was reputation that deterred me on that occasion. Sometimes there are situations where even the best makeover will not work. Question: What is probably true about him? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- He isn't attune to his feelings
- He makes impulsive decisions
- He is cautious
- not enough information
output: He is cautious

input with options: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me. Question: who was the Ambassador Answer:
OPTIONS:
- my father
- not enough information
- my sister
- my mother
output:
my father