Nathan read the package of words in silence, his only motions the steady progress of his eyes and occasional replacement of pages. Allan sat nervously across from him in a chair Nathan had probably upholstered himself, a patchwork design of fabric containing easily more stuffing than any other furniture item of the period. At long last, Nathan reached the end and set down his reading on the table between them. Allan leaned forward unconsciously. "It's the best story you've ever written." Allan exhaled and leaned back into the chair, his face relaxing in imitation of his thoughts. "So," he asked, "you don't think it's a waste of ink and paper, a futile expedition into morbidity or literary debauchery?" "Heavens, no," said Nathan, aghast. "This is one of the strongest works I've read in ages. It speaks to the deepest storyteller's instinct within us all, yet is entirely original. My dear friend, you have done it. Oh, they may rail against you at first; they may decry you as a heathen or a literary savage; but while those in power say such things, others will read your tales and see their true worth. Believe me when I say that you will be read a century from now." Allan, though dubious as to that possibility, felt some temptation from the compliment; mainly, it granted him the encouragement he still needed. Nathan promised to show the story to a printer he knew and Allan left it with him, then walked home under the spreading maples with a smile lingering on his face. He felt now that perhaps Nathan was right; although the man was somewhat peculiar, he had both an unimpeachable honesty and a certain propensity for insight. Certainly, it was undeniable that the stories had an originality to them. His mind's strangest fruit had ripened at last, and he found the taste less bitter than expected. These thoughts and others like them filled his head as he walked the long road home. It was evening, and the sky burned orange in the west when he neared home at last.
What question would one ask from this paragraph?
Answer: Why did Allan let Nathan take the story?

Two women trade houses without ever having met . They 're both looking for an escape from their problems , but by running away , both come to discover a great deal about themselves . Ria Lynch is married to Danny Lynch and they have a daughter and a son . Danny begins spending less and less time at home with his wife and children . Ria believes another baby is the solution , and is shocked to find out that indeed her husband is going to be a father - but to a child from an affair he has been having . Her husband's unfaithfulness is the event that leads Ria into her decision to switch homes with a woman from the US called Marilyn who lost her teenage son to a motorcycle accident on his birthday . Marilyn is struggling to come to terms with her son's death and has become estranged from her husband . She hopes her time in Dublin will cease her grief . Ria and Marilyn discover deep , dark secrets about the other during the summer . The two become close friends but do not reveal the secrets . { { Expand section } }
What question would one ask from this paragraph?
Answer: What do the women discover while living in each other's houses?

My father was named James Page Jackson because he was born on the old Jackson plantation in Lancaster county, Virginia. He named one of his daughters Lancaster for a middle name in memory of his old home. Clarice Lancaster Jackson was her full name. A man named Galloway bought my father and brought him to Arkansas. Some called him by the name of Galloway, but my father always had all his children keep the name Jackson. There were fourteen of us, but only ten lived to grow up. He belonged to Mr. Galloway at the time of my birth, but even at that, I did not take the name Galloway as it would seem like I should. My father was a good carpenter; he was a fine cook, too; learned that back in Virginia. I'll tell you something interesting. The first cook stove ever brought to this town was one my father had his master to bring. He was cook at the Anthony House. You know about that, don't you? It was the first real fine hotel in Little Rock. When father went there to be head cook, all they had to cook on was big fireplaces and the big old Dutch ovens. Father just kept on telling about the stoves they had in Virginia, and at last they sent and got him one; it had to come by boat and took a long time. My father was proud that he was the one who set the first table ever spread in the Anthony House.
What question would one ask from this paragraph?
Answer: Why should the author have answered the name Galloway?

We waited for half an hour, watching the smoke curling over the house, and then, judging that the Indians had made off for fear of being ambushed, we crossed the clearing. It took but a glance to read the story. The women had been washing by the little brook before the cabin, with the children playing about them, when the Indians had come up and with a single volley killed them all except the child we had heard crying. They had swooped down upon their victims, torn the scalps from their heads, looted the house, and set fire to it. We dragged out the body of the woman which had been thrown within, in the hope that a spark of life might yet remain, but she was quite dead. Beneath the warrior Spiltdorph had shot we found the child. It was a boy of some six or seven years, and so covered with blood that it seemed it must be dead. But we stripped it and washed it in the brook, and found no wounds upon it except in the head, where it had been struck with a hatchet before its scalp had been stripped off. The cold water brought it back to life and it began to cry again, whereat Spiltdorph took off his coat and wrapped it tenderly about it.
What question would one ask from this paragraph?
Answer:
When did the boy cry?