input with options: Countess Nicolette de Gobignon pressed a wet cloth tothe King's brow. Though he lay there helpless, still she found him an awesome figure, like a fallen cathedral tower. Only two other men are as tall, she thought. Amalric and Orlando. She felt a pang of guilt. How could she be thinking about the troubadour here where her royal master lay slowly dying? She fixed her eyes on Louis, and on the ivory and wood crucifix that rose and fell on his chest with his labored breathing. Nicolette felt as if she, too, could hardly breathe. Across the crowded room a fire roared in a huge stone-lined fireplace. The air was stifling. She resented all that made it so, down to the woolen draperies and wall hangings and the thick carpets that sealed in the heat. But she knew that this northern chateau, Pontoise-les-Noyons, a day's ride from Paris, had had to be built to withstand cold, its walls thick and its windows tiny ? so totally unlike the bright, airy Languedoc manor she had grown up in. Sweat trickled down her brow and stung her eyes. Her breath was coming in little gasps. She felt as if she would faint if she couldn't go outside soon. Dozens of people, the King's family and courtiers, had packed themselves uselessly into the room, making it even more suffocating. Their whispers, like the buzzing of mosquitoes, irritated Nicolette. Almost all of them, she was sure, worried more about their own welfare than about the King's. And even Louis's wife and mother, though they grieved for him, were too distracted to do much to alleviate his suffering. She saw the King's lips quiver, and quickly she bent close to him. Any last words could be terribly important. "Jerusalem," he mumbled. "Towers - golden. Gates of pearl. Crystal waters." Then he panted heavily. "Hush, sire," she whispered. "Rest easy." Question: What is probably true about Nicolette? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- She was loyal to the King
- She hated the king
- She was indifferent about the King
output: She was loyal to the King

Q: Hello I have been chased by a couple of angry dogs. I was visiting one of my clients, when, suddenly, out of the bushes, two snarling dogs attacked me. They weren't necessarily mad, as in crazy, but they were very angry. They were large dogs, and they attacked my legs, knocking me down. I knew it was very dangerous to be down on the ground, as I was most vulnerable. I covered my genitalia, my neck and my face, as I struggled to regain my feet. Fortunately, during my fall, I saw a large tree branch on the ground near me. I grabbed it, and starting beating the dogs with it. I managed to land a few good hits. As I was hitting the dogs, their owner (my client) came outside, stood on her porch and laughed at me. When she saw me hitting her dogs with a stick, she called the dogs off of me. I asked her why her dogs attacked me, and why she laughed at me. She said that she had just given her dogs a big steak bone and they were upset when I came near and attacked me. I asked her why she would set me up in this way when she knew I was on the way over. She admitted that she wanted to see what happened, and she said that when she saw what happened she thought that it was funny. I did not keep the appointment with her. My trousers were torn, and my ankles, legs, and hands were bleeding. I told her that I would not be back, and left. Later that night, her husband called to apologize on her behalf. I told him that I appreciated the call, but he wasn't the one who needed to apologize. Peace Question: Why did narrator hit the dogs with a tree branch? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- The dogs were attacking the narrator.
- The narrator was upset with the client.
- The client was laughing.
- not enough information

A: The dogs were attacking the narrator.

November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." Question: Who pulled up at the scene? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- A stranger
- A dog
- A young boy

Answer:
A stranger