Input: He continued to lie in place, still breathing heavily. I tried to keep myself calm. Then, with a sigh, he said, "I have need of a certain stone that I once possessed. It would allow me to leave this bed, despite my current illness. My problem is that it was not made in this realm, but by a human, and only a human may handle it. The herb vendor will tell you where you can find it. If you would fetch me this stone, I would tell you what I can." "Of course we will fetch you the stone," Nepthys assured him. "You have our thanks." Outside, the thing at the herb cart nodded when we mentioned the stone. He told Nepthys the name of a woman who lived on a certain street, and we set off. When we reached the street, I expected some sort of temple, or a row of antiquaries, or at least a sleazy, black-market relics merchant. Instead, it looked like we were in the red-light district: women who probably wanted more than our money eyed us from the alleys. Nepthys didn't need to warn me not to speak to them. He took us to the door of a building like a short pagoda that had a sign hanging over it showing a face with hands uplifted, like a saint under G d's light, and handcuffed. Inside, the entrance room was hung with bright silks and scattered with velvet cushions. Sails of obscene orange and a green that insulted springtime hung draped across reds that might have been sensual elsewhere but here were only offensive. A large woman, similarly decorated, quickly drifted up to us. "Good evening, gentlemen," she said. "May I invite you to have a cup of tea?" "No, thank you," said Nepthys, "we regret that we cannot take up your kind offer. Are you the proprietor of this shop?" "Yes," answered the woman. "I am Madame Entera, at your service.

Does the response "The stone" correctly answer the question "What can only a human handle?"?
***
Output: yes

Input: So it was that J.W. and Marty had come into the inner places of each other's lives. Of all the developments of Institute week, naturally the one which filled J.W.'s thoughts with a sort of awed gladness was Marty's decision to offer himself for the ministry. Joe Carbrook's right-about-face was much more dramatic, for J.W. saw, when the decision was made, that Marty could not have been meant for anything but a preacher. It was as fit as you please. As to Joe, previous opinion had been pretty equally divided; one side leaning to the idea that he might make a lawyer, and the other predicting that he was more likely to be a perpetual and profitable client for some other lawyer. In the light of the Institute happenings, it was to be expected that the question of college would promptly become a practical matter to four Delafield people. Marty was greatly troubled, for he knew if he was to be a preacher, he must go to college, and he couldn't see how. J.W. felt no great urge, though it had always been understood that he would go. Marcia Dayne had one year of normal school to her credit, and would take another next year, perhaps; but this year she must teach.

Does the response "Teacher or minister" correctly answer the question "What were Joe's two career aspirations?"?
***
Output: no

Input: Allan crouched over his desk once more, pen in hand and mind blank. He contemplated a story, an outline he had laboriously constructed some time ago. He had filled his pen and raised it, the nib descending towards the paper, before the sound came: the gentle, persistent tapping of the gnarled, primeval willow touching the window with long, insistent fingers. His eyes awoke with a passionate, determined flame, though the only light came from the glutted moon. Allan filled page after page, the words escaping from his mind onto the paper. Where before they had marched in regiments, practiced in ranks and followed their leaders' commands, the words now escaped in their true forms, unhindered by any stricture. He continued long into the night, until the eldritch orb had sunk into the waiting hands of the willow, raised perpetually skyward. Arthur looked up from the results of a night's frenzied labors and looked Allan in the eye. "What is this?" he queried, indicating the pages he held in his left hand. "I decided that since I wasn't having much success with more traditional stories, I might see what sort of work I produced if I let my imagination go freely," Allan replied, somewhat less self-assured than he had been the previous night. "What in G-d's name could have possessed you to do such a thing," cried Arthur, nearly raising his voice. "After all I said the day before, why have you abandoned centuries of literary progress for some self-indulgent fantasy?" He shook the papers at Allan, raising them like a belt above the head of a disobedient son. "This is nothing but a glorified Grimm's tale, a miscarried child of Stoker, a creation less fit to be published than to be told around an open fire at the hovel of some peasant!" He spoke the last word with such heavy intonation that Allan shrank back before the physical wave of sound emanating from Arthur's throat. "Do you hate the modern system of literature? Do you personally despise the works the Enlightenment or the progress made since Shakespeare?" For a moment, Allan could hardly do more than shake his head. "No, of course not I " "Then why," Arthur barreled on, "do you disregard them all and return to this superstitious babble, this morbid, paganistic drivel?

Does the response "The primeval willow touching the window" correctly answer the question "What awoke the passion in Allan to begin writing that night?"?
***
Output:
yes