IV. Choose the correct answer. 1. How often does it happen that one cannot help others?
a) It happens every day in our life.
b) There are frequent occasions in life that one is unable to help others.
c) People do not have such a rule to help each other.
d) There are rare occasions in life that one is unable to help others.
2. Why and when did the story-teller leave Tamu?
a) He left Tamu as an evacuee in April, 1944.
b) On 9 April, 1942 the story-teller left Tamu with the evacuation purpose.
c) On 9 April, 1942, the story-teller went to a business trip.
d) On 9 April, 1942, the story-teller didn't have to leave Tamu.
3. Whom did the story-teller find in the hills?
a) A Jeep driver.
b) A friend o f his.
c) An Indian woman with her children.
d) A group o f enemies.
4. Was a drink out o f the water-bottle o f little value?
a) It meant nothing.
b) It meant much to the poor woman.
c) Yes, it was.
d) The story-teller couldn't see any gratitude in her eyes.
5. No help was to be expected from the other evacuees, was it?
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a) No, it was.
b) No, it wasn't.
c) Yes, it wasn't.
d) Yes, it was.
6. Did the story-teller find the way out?
a) Yes, he did. He begged the driver to take the children to the evacuee camp.
b) No, he didn't. He didn't even try.
c) Yes, he did. He carried one child, though he had to leave the other.
d) He tried to do his best but unfortunately he failed.
Text 6 Muriel closed the front door o f the Rectory softly behind her. The intensely cold air invaded
her head and she sneezed. She still had that confounded cold. The fog, like a hushed lifted finger,
imposed quietness. With her nose deep in her handkerchief she began to walk along the pavement
and immediately the Rectory was lost to sight and she was walking on a roadway through the
middle o f emptiness. She could see the frozen earth, whipped up into little crests, for a short way on
her own side o f the road. The other side o f the road was invisible. The sound o f a fog horn
resounded in the thick air and seemed to move round her in a circle. She moved silently in the
middle o f a dying echo o f sound.
After a while she stopped walking and listened. Nothing. The close thick dome o f fog shut
in her little ball o f shadowy visibility and the hazy air stroked her cheek with a cold damp touch.
The woollen scarf which she had drawn over her head was already quite wet. She pushed her
handkerchief back into her pocket and breathed vigorously, pushing little streamers o f vapour out in
front o f her face. She stood there wide-eyed, listening, waiting. The fog excited her. She moved on
slowly, her feet, sticking to the damp frosty pavement, making a very slight sound. Then suddenly
she stopped again.
Upon the waste land to her left, and now quite near to her, ju st emerging from the wall o f
fog, there was something upright. It was so still that she thought it must be a post. And yet it had the
look o f a human being. Only now did she realize how odd it was that there was absolutely nobody
about. Next moment it seemed even odder, and frightening, that there was a person standing there in
the fog before her, standing perfectly still, standing as she herself had stood, waiting perhaps and
listening. It was certainly a person, a man, and he was facing towards her. Muriel hesitated and
moved cautiously on another step. Then she saw that the man was Leo Peshkov. It was as
impossible for them not to greet each other as if they had met in the deepest jungle.
«Hello.» said Muriel. «Hello. Isn’t the fog wonderful?»