English I Quiz 2: 16 March 2025 (January 2025 term)

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

What meaning does the word crumpled convey in the passage?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

In the passage, what does the word huffing refer to?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

How did the narrator defy the order to sleep?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

According to the narrator, which of the following is true about going to the hospital to retrieve his mother?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

What, according to the narrator, was/were hard for him since the day of his sister’s arrival?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

What did teta-Jozefina guarantee?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

The author thought that the child was very clean and beautiful.

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

Where was the author’s father when the child was born?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

How old was the author when his sister was born?

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions
On the evening of March 27, 1969, my father was in Leningrad, USSR, in pursuit of his advanced electrical engineering degree. My mother was at home, in Sarajevo, deep in labor, attended to by a council of her women friends. She had her hands on her round belly, huffing and crying, but the council didn’t seem too worried. I was orbiting around her, exactly four and a half years old, trying to hold her hand or sit in her lap, until I was sent to bed and ordered to sleep. I defied the order so as to monitor the developments through the (somewhat Freudian) keyhole. I was terrified, naturally, for even if I knew that there was a baby in her stomach, I still didn’t know how exactly it was all going to work, what was going to happen to her, to us, to me. When she was eventually taken to the hospital in obvious and audible pain, I was left behind with terror-provoking thoughts, which teta-Jozefina tried to counter with the guarantees that my mother would not die, that she would come back with a brother or sister for me. I did want my mother to come back; I did not want a brother or sister; I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be. The world had harmoniously belonged to me; indeed, the world had pretty much been me. But nothing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be. A few days later, I was accompanied by a couple of adults (whose names and faces have sunk to the sandy bottom of an aging mind—all I know about them is that neither of them was my father, who was still in the USSR) to retrieve my mother from the hospital. One thing I remember: she was not half as happy to see me as I was to see her. On our way home, I shared the backseat with her and a bundle of stuff they claimed was alive—that was supposed to be my sister. The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable grimace. Moreover, her face was dark, as though she were soot-coated. When I traced my finger across her cheek, a pale line appeared under the soot. “She is filthy,” I announced to the adults, but none of them acknowledged the problem. From thereon in, it would be hard for me to have my thoughts heard and my needs met. Also, chocolate would be hard to get.”
(From The Book of My Lives by Aleksandar Hemon)

Fill in the blank with the right answer:
The alleged sister’s face was seriously crumpled, containing only an ugly, indefinable _______.

Read the interview given below and fill in the blanks with those forms of the verbs which best fit the excerpt from the options provided. Your chosen answer should maintain the tense and narrative consistency of the interview.
Mike Cadden: I think that people who read your work more selectively- people who just read the science fiction or the children’s books- would probably be surprised to see how evenly split it is between adult, young adult, and children’s books. They’d be surprised, I would guess, because there (i) _____ a lot of criticism that connects them.
Ursula K. Le Guin: Yes, particularly with the actual children’s books, which have barely been mentioned.
MC: In his study on people who write for both children and adults, David Galef notes that there are few authors who (ii) _____ for both children and adults all through their careers and have been successful in both of those areas. He uses A. A. Milne as an example of somebody who does that. What I was curious about is what (iii) _____ you to move back and forth so frequently? You’ve moved between them pretty regularly. Why do you think you have moved so freely between them over the years?
UKL: You know, partly I’d have to say it’s because I had an agent who (iv) _____ willing to sell both kinds. The effect of the market is very powerful. I think a lot of writers aren’t able to. They might want to write both kinds or several kinds. This is also true of other genres. I had one of the very few agents in the United States, or in the world, who was willing to handle any genre. And not only willing to, but she could do it. She was good at it. She knew her stuff, which (v) _____ me to do what I wanted to do, which was apparently never to be pinned down into being a type of writer—except basically fiction and poetry.
Excerpted from: Cadden, Mike. “An Interview with Ursula K. Le Guin.” Ursula K. Le Guin Beyond Genre: Fiction for Children and Adults.
Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Find the appropriate verb form to fill in blank (i).

Read the interview given below and fill in the blanks with those forms of the verbs which best fit the excerpt from the options provided. Your chosen answer should maintain the tense and narrative consistency of the interview.
Mike Cadden: I think that people who read your work more selectively- people who just read the science fiction or the children’s books- would probably be surprised to see how evenly split it is between adult, young adult, and children’s books. They’d be surprised, I would guess, because there (i) _____ a lot of criticism that connects them.
Ursula K. Le Guin: Yes, particularly with the actual children’s books, which have barely been mentioned.
MC: In his study on people who write for both children and adults, David Galef notes that there are few authors who (ii) _____ for both children and adults all through their careers and have been successful in both of those areas. He uses A. A. Milne as an example of somebody who does that. What I was curious about is what (iii) _____ you to move back and forth so frequently? You’ve moved between them pretty regularly. Why do you think you have moved so freely between them over the years?
UKL: You know, partly I’d have to say it’s because I had an agent who (iv) _____ willing to sell both kinds. The effect of the market is very powerful. I think a lot of writers aren’t able to. They might want to write both kinds or several kinds. This is also true of other genres. I had one of the very few agents in the United States, or in the world, who was willing to handle any genre. And not only willing to, but she could do it. She was good at it. She knew her stuff, which (v) _____ me to do what I wanted to do, which was apparently never to be pinned down into being a type of writer—except basically fiction and poetry.
Excerpted from: Cadden, Mike. “An Interview with Ursula K. Le Guin.” Ursula K. Le Guin Beyond Genre: Fiction for Children and Adults.
Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Find the appropriate verb form to fill in blank (ii).

Read the interview given below and fill in the blanks with those forms of the verbs which best fit the excerpt from the options provided. Your chosen answer should maintain the tense and narrative consistency of the interview.
Mike Cadden: I think that people who read your work more selectively- people who just read the science fiction or the children’s books- would probably be surprised to see how evenly split it is between adult, young adult, and children’s books. They’d be surprised, I would guess, because there (i) _____ a lot of criticism that connects them.
Ursula K. Le Guin: Yes, particularly with the actual children’s books, which have barely been mentioned.
MC: In his study on people who write for both children and adults, David Galef notes that there are few authors who (ii) _____ for both children and adults all through their careers and have been successful in both of those areas. He uses A. A. Milne as an example of somebody who does that. What I was curious about is what (iii) _____ you to move back and forth so frequently? You’ve moved between them pretty regularly. Why do you think you have moved so freely between them over the years?
UKL: You know, partly I’d have to say it’s because I had an agent who (iv) _____ willing to sell both kinds. The effect of the market is very powerful. I think a lot of writers aren’t able to. They might want to write both kinds or several kinds. This is also true of other genres. I had one of the very few agents in the United States, or in the world, who was willing to handle any genre. And not only willing to, but she could do it. She was good at it. She knew her stuff, which (v) _____ me to do what I wanted to do, which was apparently never to be pinned down into being a type of writer—except basically fiction and poetry.
Excerpted from: Cadden, Mike. “An Interview with Ursula K. Le Guin.” Ursula K. Le Guin Beyond Genre: Fiction for Children and Adults.
Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Find the appropriate verb form to fill in blank (iii).

Read the interview given below and fill in the blanks with those forms of the verbs which best fit the excerpt from the options provided. Your chosen answer should maintain the tense and narrative consistency of the interview.
Mike Cadden: I think that people who read your work more selectively- people who just read the science fiction or the children’s books- would probably be surprised to see how evenly split it is between adult, young adult, and children’s books. They’d be surprised, I would guess, because there (i) _____ a lot of criticism that connects them.
Ursula K. Le Guin: Yes, particularly with the actual children’s books, which have barely been mentioned.
MC: In his study on people who write for both children and adults, David Galef notes that there are few authors who (ii) _____ for both children and adults all through their careers and have been successful in both of those areas. He uses A. A. Milne as an example of somebody who does that. What I was curious about is what (iii) _____ you to move back and forth so frequently? You’ve moved between them pretty regularly. Why do you think you have moved so freely between them over the years?
UKL: You know, partly I’d have to say it’s because I had an agent who (iv) _____ willing to sell both kinds. The effect of the market is very powerful. I think a lot of writers aren’t able to. They might want to write both kinds or several kinds. This is also true of other genres. I had one of the very few agents in the United States, or in the world, who was willing to handle any genre. And not only willing to, but she could do it. She was good at it. She knew her stuff, which (v) _____ me to do what I wanted to do, which was apparently never to be pinned down into being a type of writer—except basically fiction and poetry.
Excerpted from: Cadden, Mike. “An Interview with Ursula K. Le Guin.” Ursula K. Le Guin Beyond Genre: Fiction for Children and Adults.
Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Find the appropriate verb form to fill in blank (iv).

Read the interview given below and fill in the blanks with those forms of the verbs which best fit the excerpt from the options provided. Your chosen answer should maintain the tense and narrative consistency of the interview.
Mike Cadden: I think that people who read your work more selectively- people who just read the science fiction or the children’s books- would probably be surprised to see how evenly split it is between adult, young adult, and children’s books. They’d be surprised, I would guess, because there (i) _____ a lot of criticism that connects them.
Ursula K. Le Guin: Yes, particularly with the actual children’s books, which have barely been mentioned.
MC: In his study on people who write for both children and adults, David Galef notes that there are few authors who (ii) _____ for both children and adults all through their careers and have been successful in both of those areas. He uses A. A. Milne as an example of somebody who does that. What I was curious about is what (iii) _____ you to move back and forth so frequently? You’ve moved between them pretty regularly. Why do you think you have moved so freely between them over the years?
UKL: You know, partly I’d have to say it’s because I had an agent who (iv) _____ willing to sell both kinds. The effect of the market is very powerful. I think a lot of writers aren’t able to. They might want to write both kinds or several kinds. This is also true of other genres. I had one of the very few agents in the United States, or in the world, who was willing to handle any genre. And not only willing to, but she could do it. She was good at it. She knew her stuff, which (v) _____ me to do what I wanted to do, which was apparently never to be pinned down into being a type of writer—except basically fiction and poetry.
Excerpted from: Cadden, Mike. “An Interview with Ursula K. Le Guin.” Ursula K. Le Guin Beyond Genre: Fiction for Children and Adults.
Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Find the appropriate verb form to fill in blank (v).

Fill in the blanks in List A with the most appropriate options in List B. There is only one fitting answer for each blank.

Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

The fish in our pond _____ little black spots on their foreheads.

Fill in the blanks in List A with the most appropriate options in List B. There is only one fitting answer for each blank.

Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

__________ Aman and Naveen know that you are planning to quit?

Fill in the blanks in List A with the most appropriate options in List B. There is only one fitting answer for each blank.

Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

_____ Economics require a working knowledge of Mathematics?

Fill in the blanks in List A with the most appropriate options in List B. There is only one fitting answer for each blank.

Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

_____ these glasses yours?

Fill in the blanks in List A with the most appropriate options in List B. There is only one fitting answer for each blank.

Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Pragya, along with Archish, _____ coming to Chandigarh.

Either my aunt or my cousins _________ at home with me.

Most college professors ___________ rather interesting lives in private.

Select true/false for the following statement.
The sentence, ‘I have been living in this building for 20 years’ is an example of the present perfect tense.

Choose the future perfect continuous tense sentence from the following options:

Fill in the blank with future perfect continuous tense form.
At the end of this term, I _________ French for about 10 years. In another 10 years, I might be fluent!

Choose the correct option.
Ramu and Shyamu will be exhausted. They _______ slept for 24 hours.

Choose the correct option.
He __________ four languages: English, Tamil, French, and Spanish.

‘What’s the smell? Ah! One bloom of the rose can perfume the whole house.’
Choose the appropriate stress for the usage of the word ‘perfume’ in the sentence.

The word biological is stressed as _______.

The word scientific is stressed as _______.

Consider the sentence; Children often rebel against being forced to eat certain foods. The word rebel in this sentence is stressed as _________

In the plural noun dishes, the plural marker sounds as ________.

In the plural noun prizes, the plural marker sounds as ________.

The plural markers for the words ‘bricks’, ‘marbles’ and ‘granites’ are ______.

Which of the following has an aspirated stop?

The /p/ sound in the word capacity is _________.

The /k/ sound in the word colleague is _________.

The sound /p/ in the word escape is in the initial position of the stressed syllable.

How many syllables are there in the word straight?

How many syllables are there in the word ideology?