We had a light bulb that stopped working and when a new bulb was placed it wouldn't light up. We eventually had a technician from John Moore come out to fix this problem. He was nice enough and took the time to explain to me why it had stopped working and how he would fix this. After about 30 minutes he had completed this and then offered as a free service to inspect the electrical parts of the house. He went out back to the fuse box to look and then after inspection offered to show me what he had found. It was mid to late afternoon in the back yard and that's when the sun is aiming straight to my back yard. I should mention we live in Texas. He went over ever single fuse and wire that we had and explained about the piping and all the other things that go with it and that what we have isn't what is recommended anymore. Our house was about 9 years old at the time. We were back there for more than 90 minutes. I started getting very restless because I wanted to work on dinner, the sun was blazing hot and I needed to do many other things. It was coming up on 5 o'clock. He then went to his truck to write up an estimate. After 20 minutes or so he comes back and tells me it will be about $10,000 to fix our fuse box system. So what started out for changing a light bulb was going to end up costing 10K. We did later get it looked at by someone else that is qualified in this field,m who was there working on some other project and he said there was nothing wrong with what we had. Question: Where was the fuse box located? Options: A. in the kitchen B. out in the back C. not enough information D. in Texas === The correct answer is
B

(Question)
I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath. Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy." He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man. Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. Question: Who does the narrator think Steve is closer to? Options: A. not enough information B. Neither C. Miss Tennessee D. Himself === The correct answer is
(Answer)
C

Ques: I had seen it before, those fuzzy, furry leaves and stalks, with the pretty, star-pointed purple flowers, but up until that moment that I saw them sitting in a basket at the market stalls, I admit I had never taken notice of it as a food. It grow along cracks in stone walls and along the roadside near my home in Settignano, which is blooming with spring goodness right now: robinia (black locust) trees, wild garlic (three-cornered leek) and even elderflowers are already bursting. I asked the vendor just to double check, "Is this borage?" "Si," Came the answer, "Borragine." He confirmed. "I've had it in ravioli," I started to say, "Brava!" He said, as if we were about to start a guessing game on what could be done with it. Actually, there's a lot that can be done with it. If you can use it as a ravioli filling with ricotta, then you can imagine it taking the place of spinach in gnudi, too, but also soups or frittata or stirred through polenta. I learned that the flowers are just as delicious, if not more interesting, for their delicate cucumber-like flavour people told me of their use in salads or cocktails like Pimms, and someone even mentioned she freezes them in ice cubes, what a pretty idea for those first warm nights when you can dine al fresco, homemade cocktail in hand. Then there's risotto and of course the fritters, much like these ones. Or you can simply deep fry the clusters of buds that haven't yet burst open like these deep-fried robinia flowers. borage and ricotta crepes The problem, I was thinking, as I took home my bag of borage, is that I can't decide what to make. There's simply too much choice. I consulted two of my favourite books that also happen to be cookbooks. Patience Gray's Honey from a Weed and Luigi Ballerini's A Feast of Weeds. Both had wonderful ideas for borage (and indeed many other edible, foraged plants). Question: What is true about the writer? Options: A. he likes to cook B. he likes to learn C. not enough information D. he likes to travel === The correct answer is
Ans:
A