Q: The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. Immediately after the end of this text, the girl on the gurney: A. was hooked up B. not enough information C. was not there D. was a man
A: A

Q: With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London. I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich. Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover. The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now. The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst. How could the writer eat at London's best restaurants for free? A. I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie B. The writer was invited to attend launch parties for new sites. C. not enough information D. Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website was his girlfriend.
A: D

Q: "They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her. Immediately after the end of this text, the Vietnamese woman is: A. gone B. not enough information C. holding plastic shopping bags D. watching the author
A: A