SAT Test practice questions, page 34 of 38, with answer review and explanations.
Question 166
Mathew ascended three flights of stairs `" passed half-way down a long arched gallery `" and knocked at another old-fashioned oak door. This time the signal was answered. A low, clear, sweet voice, inside the room, inquired who was waiting without? In a few hasty words Mathew told his errand. Before he had done speaking the door was quietly and quickly opened, and Sarah Leeson confronted him on the threshold, with her candle in her hand. Not tall, not handsome, not in her first youth `" shy and irresolute in manner `" simple in dress to the utmost limits of plainness `" the lady's-maid, in spite of all these disadvantages, was a woman whom it was impossible to look at without a feeling of curiosity, if not of interest. Few men, at first sight of her, could have resisted the desire to find out who she was; few would have been satisfied with receiving for answer, She is Mrs. Treverton's maid; few would have refrained from the attempt to extract some secret information for themselves from her face and manner; and none, not even the most patient and practiced of observers, could have succeeded in discovering more than that she must have passed through the ordeal of some great suffering at some former period of her life. Much in her manner, and more in her face, said plainly and sadly: I am the wreck of something that you might once have liked to see; a wreck that can never be repaired `" that must drift on through life unnoticed, unguided, unpitied `" drift till the fatal shore is touched, and the waves of Time have swallowed up these broken relics of me forever. This was the story that was told in Sarah Leeson's face `" this, and no more. No two men interpreting that story for themselves, would probably have agreed on the nature of the suffering which this woman had undergone. It was hard to say, at the outset, whether the past pain that had set its ineffaceable mark on her had been pain of the body or pain of the mind. But whatever the nature of the affliction she had suffered, the traces it had left were deeply and strikingly visible in every part of her face. Her cheeks had lost their roundness and their natural color; her lips, singularly flexible in movement and delicate in form, had faded to an unhealthy paleness; her eyes, large and black and overshadowed by unusually thick lashes, had contracted an anxious startled look, which never left them and which piteously expressed the painful acuteness of her sensibility, the inherent timidity of her disposition. So far, the marks which sorrow or sickness had set on her were the marks common to most victims of mental or physical suffering. The one extraordinary personal deterioration which she had undergone consisted in the unnatural change that had passed over the color of her hair. It was as thick and soft, it grew as gracefully, as the hair of a young girl; but it was as gray as the hair of an old woman. It seemed to contradict, in the most startling manner, every personal assertion of youth that still existed in her face. With all its haggardness and paleness, no one could have looked at it and supposed for a moment that it was the face of an elderly woman. Wan as they might be, there was not a wrinkle in her cheeks. Her eyes, viewed apart from their prevailing expression of uneasiness and timidity, still preserved that bright, clear moisture which is never seen in the eyes of the old. The skin about her temples was as delicately smooth as the skin of a child. These and other physical signs which never mislead, showed that she was still, as to years, in the very prime of her life. Sickly and sorrow-stricken as she was, she looked, from the eyes downward, a woman who had barely reached thirty years of age. From the eyes upward, the effect of her abundant gray hair, seen in connection with her face, was not simply incongruous `" it was absolutely startling; so startling as to make it no paradox to say that she would have looked most natural, most like herself if her hair had been dyed. In her case, Art would have seemed to be the truth, because Nature looked like falsehood. What shock had stricken her hair, in the very maturity of its luxuriance, with the hue of an unnatural old age? Was it a serious illness, or a dreadful grief that had turned her gray in the prime of her womanhood? That question had often been agitated among her fellow-servants, who were all struck by the peculiarities of her personal appearance, and rendered a little suspicious of her, as well, by an inveterate habit that she had of talking to herself. Inquire as they might, however, their curiosity was always baffled. Nothing more could be discovered than that Sarah Leeson was, in the common phrase, touchy on the subject of her gray hair and her habit of talking to herself, and that Sarah Leeson's mistress had long since forbidden every one, from her husband downward, to ruffle her maid's tranquility by inquisitive questions. What does the author mean with the statement `In her case, Art would have seemed to be the truth, because Nature looked like falsehood`?
Usually women would have been presented in Art as natural as possible but in the case of Sarah, Art would have made improvements to Nature.
Normally Art is perceptibly copying that which is natural (Nature), and this is reversed in the case of Sarah.
Artists would not have used Sarah for a pose unless it was from the eyes downward.
Artists would have had to modify Nature by painting her hair a different color than gray.
Nature made Sarah look like a falsehood rather like Art.
Question 167
Mathew ascended three flights of stairs `" passed half-way down a long arched gallery `" and knocked at another old-fashioned oak door. This time the signal was answered. A low, clear, sweet voice, inside the room, inquired who was waiting without? In a few hasty words Mathew told his errand. Before he had done speaking the door was quietly and quickly opened, and Sarah Leeson confronted him on the threshold, with her candle in her hand. Not tall, not handsome, not in her first youth `" shy and irresolute in manner `" simple in dress to the utmost limits of plainness `" the lady's-maid, in spite of all these disadvantages, was a woman whom it was impossible to look at without a feeling of curiosity, if not of interest. Few men, at first sight of her, could have resisted the desire to find out who she was; few would have been satisfied with receiving for answer, She is Mrs. Treverton's maid; few would have refrained from the attempt to extract some secret information for themselves from her face and manner; and none, not even the most patient and practiced of observers, could have succeeded in discovering more than that she must have passed through the ordeal of some great suffering at some former period of her life. Much in her manner, and more in her face, said plainly and sadly: I am the wreck of something that you might once have liked to see; a wreck that can never be repaired `" that must drift on through life unnoticed, unguided, unpitied `" drift till the fatal shore is touched, and the waves of Time have swallowed up these broken relics of me forever. This was the story that was told in Sarah Leeson's face `" this, and no more. No two men interpreting that story for themselves, would probably have agreed on the nature of the suffering which this woman had undergone. It was hard to say, at the outset, whether the past pain that had set its ineffaceable mark on her had been pain of the body or pain of the mind. But whatever the nature of the affliction she had suffered, the traces it had left were deeply and strikingly visible in every part of her face. Her cheeks had lost their roundness and their natural color; her lips, singularly flexible in movement and delicate in form, had faded to an unhealthy paleness; her eyes, large and black and overshadowed by unusually thick lashes, had contracted an anxious startled look, which never left them and which piteously expressed the painful acuteness of her sensibility, the inherent timidity of her disposition. So far, the marks which sorrow or sickness had set on her were the marks common to most victims of mental or physical suffering. The one extraordinary personal deterioration which she had undergone consisted in the unnatural change that had passed over the color of her hair. It was as thick and soft, it grew as gracefully, as the hair of a young girl; but it was as gray as the hair of an old woman. It seemed to contradict, in the most startling manner, every personal assertion of youth that still existed in her face. With all its haggardness and paleness, no one could have looked at it and supposed for a moment that it was the face of an elderly woman. Wan as they might be, there was not a wrinkle in her cheeks. Her eyes, viewed apart from their prevailing expression of uneasiness and timidity, still preserved that bright, clear moisture which is never seen in the eyes of the old. The skin about her temples was as delicately smooth as the skin of a child. These and other physical signs which never mislead, showed that she was still, as to years, in the very prime of her life. Sickly and sorrow-stricken as she was, she looked, from the eyes downward, a woman who had barely reached thirty years of age. From the eyes upward, the effect of her abundant gray hair, seen in connection with her face, was not simply incongruous `" it was absolutely startling; so startling as to make it no paradox to say that she would have looked most natural, most like herself if her hair had been dyed. In her case, Art would have seemed to be the truth, because Nature looked like falsehood. What shock had stricken her hair, in the very maturity of its luxuriance, with the hue of an unnatural old age? Was it a serious illness, or a dreadful grief that had turned her gray in the prime of her womanhood? That question had often been agitated among her fellow-servants, who were all struck by the peculiarities of her personal appearance, and rendered a little suspicious of her, as well, by an inveterate habit that she had of talking to herself. Inquire as they might, however, their curiosity was always baffled. Nothing more could be discovered than that Sarah Leeson was, in the common phrase, touchy on the subject of her gray hair and her habit of talking to herself, and that Sarah Leeson's mistress had long since forbidden every one, from her husband downward, to ruffle her maid's tranquility by inquisitive questions. In context, the word `inveterate` in the last paragraph most closely means:
a particularly bad.
occurring over a prolonged period.
something only present in vertebrates.
positively unacceptable.
rude.
Question 168
Mathew ascended three flights of stairs `" passed half-way down a long arched gallery `" and knocked at another old-fashioned oak door. This time the signal was answered. A low, clear, sweet voice, inside the room, inquired who was waiting without? In a few hasty words Mathew told his errand. Before he had done speaking the door was quietly and quickly opened, and Sarah Leeson confronted him on the threshold, with her candle in her hand. Not tall, not handsome, not in her first youth `" shy and irresolute in manner `" simple in dress to the utmost limits of plainness `" the lady's-maid, in spite of all these disadvantages, was a woman whom it was impossible to look at without a feeling of curiosity, if not of interest. Few men, at first sight of her, could have resisted the desire to find out who she was; few would have been satisfied with receiving for answer, She is Mrs. Treverton's maid; few would have refrained from the attempt to extract some secret information for themselves from her face and manner; and none, not even the most patient and practiced of observers, could have succeeded in discovering more than that she must have passed through the ordeal of some great suffering at some former period of her life. Much in her manner, and more in her face, said plainly and sadly: I am the wreck of something that you might once have liked to see; a wreck that can never be repaired `" that must drift on through life unnoticed, unguided, unpitied `" drift till the fatal shore is touched, and the waves of Time have swallowed up these broken relics of me forever. This was the story that was told in Sarah Leeson's face `" this, and no more. No two men interpreting that story for themselves, would probably have agreed on the nature of the suffering which this woman had undergone. It was hard to say, at the outset, whether the past pain that had set its ineffaceable mark on her had been pain of the body or pain of the mind. But whatever the nature of the affliction she had suffered, the traces it had left were deeply and strikingly visible in every part of her face. Her cheeks had lost their roundness and their natural color; her lips, singularly flexible in movement and delicate in form, had faded to an unhealthy paleness; her eyes, large and black and overshadowed by unusually thick lashes, had contracted an anxious startled look, which never left them and which piteously expressed the painful acuteness of her sensibility, the inherent timidity of her disposition. So far, the marks which sorrow or sickness had set on her were the marks common to most victims of mental or physical suffering. The one extraordinary personal deterioration which she had undergone consisted in the unnatural change that had passed over the color of her hair. It was as thick and soft, it grew as gracefully, as the hair of a young girl; but it was as gray as the hair of an old woman. It seemed to contradict, in the most startling manner, every personal assertion of youth that still existed in her face. With all its haggardness and paleness, no one could have looked at it and supposed for a moment that it was the face of an elderly woman. Wan as they might be, there was not a wrinkle in her cheeks. Her eyes, viewed apart from their prevailing expression of uneasiness and timidity, still preserved that bright, clear moisture which is never seen in the eyes of the old. The skin about her temples was as delicately smooth as the skin of a child. These and other physical signs which never mislead, showed that she was still, as to years, in the very prime of her life. Sickly and sorrow-stricken as she was, she looked, from the eyes downward, a woman who had barely reached thirty years of age. From the eyes upward, the effect of her abundant gray hair, seen in connection with her face, was not simply incongruous `" it was absolutely startling; so startling as to make it no paradox to say that she would have looked most natural, most like herself if her hair had been dyed. In her case, Art would have seemed to be the truth, because Nature looked like falsehood. What shock had stricken her hair, in the very maturity of its luxuriance, with the hue of an unnatural old age? Was it a serious illness, or a dreadful grief that had turned her gray in the prime of her womanhood? That question had often been agitated among her fellow-servants, who were all struck by the peculiarities of her personal appearance, and rendered a little suspicious of her, as well, by an inveterate habit that she had of talking to herself. Inquire as they might, however, their curiosity was always baffled. Nothing more could be discovered than that Sarah Leeson was, in the common phrase, touchy on the subject of her gray hair and her habit of talking to herself, and that Sarah Leeson's mistress had long since forbidden every one, from her husband downward, to ruffle her maid's tranquility by inquisitive questions. What may the reader infer from `and that Sarah Leeson's mistress...by inquisitive questions` at the end of the passage?
Sarah had a close bond with her mistress, even to the extent that the mistress might have some involvement with her pain.
Sarah is a valuable servant and the mistress does not want the action of other servants to cause her distress.
The mistress does not want to train another servant and does not want anything to upset Sarah and cause her to leave.
Sarah is protected by her mistress, even when it comes to her husband, inasmuch as no one is allowed to disturb Sarah.
Sarah knows something that the mistress does not want to get out and so she doesn't want Sarah upset.
Question 169
The continued strong demand for business loans, combined with a tightening in the availability of funds has caused commercial banks in most parts of the country to begin trimming their lists of customers entitled to prime-rate loans. The prime rate is the interest rate that banks charge their best customers with the highest credit ratings. The present rate is 5.5 percent. The executive in charge of the national department at one of New York's leading banks noted yesterday, for example, that "the change has come particularly in the short and medium term range." In these categories, the bank officers said, rates are generally 5.75% when they had been 5.5% formerly. Short term loans are for less than one year while medium term loans are from one to five years. A top executive at another large New York bank added that "we also see a trend toward shorter maturities on term loans." The longest maturity his bank would give the, he said, was seven or eight years at any rate. "Personally I feel that we shouldn't be giving prime-rate loans on any maturities of more than two years," he asserted. The president of a large Texas bank stated flatly that "we are negotiating with each individual customer," implying in that no customer is guaranteed the prime rate. A senior loan officer at a major California bank said, "We've been shying away from even talking about the prime rate and have been fixing rates with each loan rather than gearing our rates to the prime." One area, however, apparently not experiencing the pinch was Chicago, where the executive of a large bank reported that "I don't think we're in a position where we have to reduce the list of prime customers." The most optimistic bank executive seems to be the one from the state of:
Texas
Alabama
Illinois
California
New York
Question 170
The continued strong demand for business loans, combined with a tightening in the availability of funds has caused commercial banks in most parts of the country to begin trimming their lists of customers entitled to prime-rate loans. The prime rate is the interest rate that banks charge their best customers with the highest credit ratings. The present rate is 5.5 percent. The executive in charge of the national department at one of New York's leading banks noted yesterday, for example, that "the change has come particularly in the short and medium term range." In these categories, the bank officers said, rates are generally 5.75% when they had been 5.5% formerly. Short term loans are for less than one year while medium term loans are from one to five years. A top executive at another large New York bank added that "we also see a trend toward shorter maturities on term loans." The longest maturity his bank would give the, he said, was seven or eight years at any rate. "Personally I feel that we shouldn't be giving prime-rate loans on any maturities of more than two years," he asserted. The president of a large Texas bank stated flatly that "we are negotiating with each individual customer," implying in that no customer is guaranteed the prime rate. A senior loan officer at a major California bank said, "We've been shying away from even talking about the prime rate and have been fixing rates with each loan rather than gearing our rates to the prime." One area, however, apparently not experiencing the pinch was Chicago, where the executive of a large bank reported that "I don't think we're in a position where we have to reduce the list of prime customers." If a borrower gets a comparatively low rate, you may assume that they: