ACT Reading : Prose Fiction
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Example Question #31 : Extrapolating From The Text In Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted From "Tony Kytes, The Arch-Deceiver" in Life's Little Ironies: A Set of Tales, with some colloquial sketches, entitled, A Few Crusted Characters by Thomas Hardy (1905 ed.)
I shall never forget Tony’s face. It was a little, round, firm, tight face, with a seam here and there left by the small-pox, but not enough to hurt his looks in a woman's eye, though he'd had it baddish when he was a boy. So very serious looking and unsmiling 'a was, that young man, that it really seemed as if he couldn't laugh at all without great pain to his conscience. He looked very hard at a small speck in your eye when talking to 'ee. And there was no more sign of a whisker or beard on Tony Kytes's face than on the palm of my hand. He used to sing "The Tailor's Breeches," with all its scandelous lyrics, in a religious manner, as if it were a hymn. He was quite the women's favorite.
But in course of time Tony got fixed down to one in particular, Milly Richards – a nice, light, small, tender little thing; and it was soon said that they were engaged to be married. One Saturday he had been to market to do business for his father, and was driving home the wagon in the afternoon. When he reached the foot of the hill, who should he see waiting for him at the top but Unity Sallet, a handsome girl, one of the young women he'd been very tender towards before he'd got engaged to Milly.
As soon as Tony came up to her she said, "My dear Tony, will you give me a lift home?"
"That I will, darling," said Tony. "You don't suppose I could refuse 'ee?"
She smiled a smile, and up she hopped, and on drove Tony.
"Tony," she says, in a sort of tender chide, "Why did ye desert me for that other one? In what is she better than I? I should have made 'ee a finer wife, and a more loving one, too. 'Tisn't girls that are so easily won at first that are the best. Think how long we've known each other—ever since we were children almost—now haven't we, Tony?"
"Yes, that we have," says Tony, struck with the truth o't.
"And you've never seen anything in me to complain of, have ye, Tony? Now tell the truth to me."
"I never have, upon my life," says Tony.
"And—can you say I'm not pretty, Tony? Now look at me.
He let his eyes light upon her for a long while. "I really can't," says he. "In fact, I never knowed you was so pretty before!"
It can reasonably be inferred from the passage that __________.
Tony never sang songs with unseemly lyrics.
Unity intended to meet and get a lift from Tony.
Tony's father disapproves of Tony's antics.
Unity is not jealous of Tony's change of affection.
Tony is faithful to Milly.
Unity intended to meet and get a lift from Tony.
The narrator states that Unity was “waiting for [Tony],” and from her invasive questions, we can tell it was her intention to meet Tony to sway his opinion.
Example Question #541 : Prose Fiction
Adapted from Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen (1817)
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.
Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel–writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body.
Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. “I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that I often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss—?” “Oh! It is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humor, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.
Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favorable idea of the age that could endure it.
Which of the following can we infer, based on the passage?
Belinda, Cecilia, Camilla, and the Spectator were familiar to the author’s intended audience.
The Spectator often published excerpts from new novels to drum up support for them.
No one was writing novels at this point in history because they were so unpopular.
Milton, Pope, Prior, and Sterne were rarely referenced in the author's era.
The History of England was rarely abridged.
Belinda, Cecilia, Camilla, and the Spectator were familiar to the author’s intended audience.
Let’s consider each of these answer choices to figure out which one is correct.
“The History of England was rarely abridged.” - This is not true; the narrator only mentions the History of England in the third paragraph, where she references “the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England.” This tells us that the History of England was often abridged.
“The Spectator often published excerpts from new novels to drum up support for them.” - This is not true; the narrator explicitly contrasts the Spectator with novels and never once suggests that the Spectator published novel excerpts.
“No one was writing novels at this point in history because they were so unpopular.” - This cannot be true because in the second and third paragraphs, the narrator appeals to other novelists. If no one was writing novels at this point in history, it is reasonable to assume that the narrator would not appeal to other novelists.
“Milton, Pope, Prior, and Sterne were rarely referenced in the author’s era.” - The passage does not support this inference, as when the narrator references Milton, Pope, Prior, and Sterne in the third paragraph, she does so in a way that assumes that the reader recognizes those writers; she doesn’t explain who they are whatsoever.
This leaves us with the correct answer, “Belinda, Cecilia, Camilla, and the Spectator were familiar to the author’s intended audience.” The narrator uses Belinda, Cecilia, and Camilla as examples of a novel in the hypothetical situation she constructs at the end of the third paragraph, and the Spectator as an example of a widely-praised but (in her opinion) undeserving work in the contrasted scene in the last paragraph. She does not take the time to introduce these works and publication to her readers, but instead assumes that they will be familiar with them. Thus, it’s reasonable to assume that they were familiar to her audience.
Example Question #91 : Drawing Inferences From Prose Fiction Passages
Adapted from “The McWilliamses and the Burglar Alarm” in The Mysterious Stranger and Other Stories by Mark Twain (1898; 1916)
The conversation drifted along from weather to crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of burglar alarms. And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed feeling. Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart. Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion:
"I do not go one single cent on burglar alarms, Mr. Twain—not a single cent—and I will tell you why. When we were finishing our house, we found we had a little cash left over. I was for donating it to charity; but Mrs. McWilliams said no, let's have a burglar alarm. I agreed to this compromise. Whenever I want a thing, and Mrs. McWilliams wants another thing, and we decide upon the thing that Mrs. McWilliams wants—as we always do—she calls that a compromise. Very well: the man came up from New York and put in the alarm, and charged three hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and said we could sleep without uneasiness now. So we did for awhile—say a month. Then one night we smelled smoke. I lit a candle, and started toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark. He was smoking a pipe. I said, 'My friend, we do not allow smoking in this room.' He said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this one, and it had never been objected to before.
"I said: 'Smoke along, then. But what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?’
He looked confused and ashamed, and said, with embarrassment: 'I beg a thousand pardons. I did not know you had a burglar alarm, else I would have rung it. I beg you will not mention it where my parents may hear of it, for they are old and feeble, and such a seemingly wanton breach of the hallowed conventionalities of our civilization might all too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities. May I trouble you for a match?’
"I said: 'Your sentiments do you honor, but metaphor is not your best hold. Spare your thigh; this kind light only on the box. But to return to business: how did you get in here?’”
Which of the following details are supported by the second paragraph?
One of the neighbors of the McWilliamses installed their burglar alarm.
The man stealing the tinware is an experienced thief.
Tinware is more valuable than silverware.
The McWilliamses never spent any money on their home.
When the McWilliamses smelled smoke, it was because their house was on fire.
The man stealing the tinware is an experienced thief.
Let’s consider each of the potential answer choices in order to identify the correct one.
“Tinware is more valuable than silverware” - In the second paragraph, Mr. McWilliams says that he “met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark.” From this, we can infer that since the thief stole the tinware thinking it was silverware, that silverware is more valuable than tinware, and this answer choice cannot be correct.
“When the McWilliamses smelled smoke, it was because their house was on fire.” - This answer choice is contradicted in the second paragraph when Mr. McWilliams says, “Then one night we smelled smoke. I lit a candle, and started toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room . . . He was smoking a pipe.” Given this, and that a house fire isn’t mentioned at all in the passage, we can infer that the thief’s pipe was the source of the smoke that the McWilliamses smelled.
“One of the neighbors of the McWilliamses installed their burglar alarm.” - This cannot be correct, because Mr. McWilliams says that “the man came up from New York and put in the alarm.” The use of the phrase “came up” implies that “New York” is a different place from that in which the McWilliamses live. Thus, the man who installed the burglar alarm cannot be a neighbor of the McWilliamses.
“The McWilliamses never spent any money on their home.” - This cannot be correct because near the beginning of the second paragraph, Mr. McWilliams says, “When we were finishing our house, we found we had a little cash left over.” The use of the phrase “left over” implies that they were spending a set amount of money on their home, and did not end up spending the entire amount.
The final remaining answer is the correct answer: “The man stealing the tinware is an experienced thief.” While his mistaking tinware for silverware may make him look like an inexperienced thief, the final lines of the passage tell us that he has broken into other houses before; after Mr. McWilliams admonishes him for smoking, the passage says, “[The thief] said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this one, and it had never been objected to before.” The last part of this sentence is the key to realizing the thief has stolen from other houses and is thus experienced.
Example Question #541 : Prose Fiction
Adapted from Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life by George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans) (1874)
And how should Dorothea not marry? A girl so handsome and with such prospects? Nothing could hinder it but her love of extremes, and her insistence on regulating life according to notions which might cause a wary man to hesitate before he made her an offer, or even might lead her at last to refuse all offers. A young lady of some birth and fortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the side of a sick laborer and prayed fervidly as if she thought herself living in the time of the apostles, who had strange whims of fasting and of sitting up at night to read old theological books! Such a wife might awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme for the application of her income which would interfere with political economy and the keeping of saddle-horses; a man would naturally think twice before he risked himself in such fellowship. Women were expected to have weak opinions, but the great safeguard of society and of domestic life was that opinions were not acted on. Sane people did what their neighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know and avoid them.
The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers, was generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable and innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, like her religion, too unusual and striking. Poor Dorothea! Compared with her, the innocent-looking Celia was knowing and worldly-wise; so much subtler is a human mind than the outside tissues which make a sort of blazonry or clock-face for it.
Yet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced against her by this alarming hearsay, found that she had a charm unaccountably reconcilable with it. Most men thought her bewitching when she was on horseback. She loved the fresh air and the various aspects of the country, and when her eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasure she looked very little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which she allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she always looked forward to renouncing it.
She was open, ardent, and not in the least self-admiring; indeed, it was pretty to see how her imagination adorned her sister Celia with attractions altogether superior to her own, and if any gentleman appeared to come to the Grange from some other motive than that of seeing Mr. Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia. Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly considered from Celia's point of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good for Celia to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herself would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorothea, with all her eagerness to know the truths of life, retained very childlike ideas about marriage.
Based on what we are told in the passage, which of the following would be make the most sense if it occurred next in the story?
Dorothea renounces her previous religious tendencies.
Celia becomes jealous of Dorothea since the community likes her better.
Dorothea is informed that Sir James Chettam has been courting her instead of Celia, and is dumbfounded.
The community changes its opinions to value women’s opinions highly and act on them.
Celia and Dorothea decide to run away from their community to London.
Dorothea is informed that Sir James Chettam has been courting her instead of Celia, and is dumbfounded.
The correct, most likely answer is that “Dorothea is informed that Sir James Chettam has been courting her instead of Celia, and is dumbfounded.” This event is foreshadowed in the passage’s last paragraph:
“. . . if any gentleman appeared to come to the Grange from some other motive than that of seeing Mr. Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia. Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly considered from Celia's point of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good for Celia to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herself would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance.”
As for the other answer choices, the community does not like Dorothea better than Celia; we are told this at the start of the second paragraph, which states, “The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers, was generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable and innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, like her religion, too unusual and striking.” This means that the answer “Celia becomes jealous of Dorothea since the community likes her better” is incorrect because it states an incorrect fact about the story. Nothing about the passage strongly suggests that Celia and Dorothea will run away from their community to London, even though their community is judgmental. Dorothea is unlikely to renounce her religious tendencies, given how they are used to characterize her in the first paragraph of the passage. The passage doesn’t suggest that it is likely that community will change its opinions to value women’s opinions highly.
Example Question #101 : Drawing Inferences From Prose Fiction Passages
Adapted from Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life by George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans) (1874)
And how should Dorothea not marry? A girl so handsome and with such prospects? Nothing could hinder it but her love of extremes, and her insistence on regulating life according to notions which might cause a wary man to hesitate before he made her an offer, or even might lead her at last to refuse all offers. A young lady of some birth and fortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the side of a sick laborer and prayed fervidly as if she thought herself living in the time of the apostles, who had strange whims of fasting and of sitting up at night to read old theological books! Such a wife might awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme for the application of her income which would interfere with political economy and the keeping of saddle-horses; a man would naturally think twice before he risked himself in such fellowship. Women were expected to have weak opinions, but the great safeguard of society and of domestic life was that opinions were not acted on. Sane people did what their neighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know and avoid them.
The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers, was generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable and innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, like her religion, too unusual and striking. Poor Dorothea! Compared with her, the innocent-looking Celia was knowing and worldly-wise; so much subtler is a human mind than the outside tissues which make a sort of blazonry or clock-face for it.
Yet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced against her by this alarming hearsay, found that she had a charm unaccountably reconcilable with it. Most men thought her bewitching when she was on horseback. She loved the fresh air and the various aspects of the country, and when her eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasure she looked very little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which she allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she always looked forward to renouncing it.
She was open, ardent, and not in the least self-admiring; indeed, it was pretty to see how her imagination adorned her sister Celia with attractions altogether superior to her own, and if any gentleman appeared to come to the Grange from some other motive than that of seeing Mr. Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia. Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly considered from Celia's point of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good for Celia to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herself would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorothea, with all her eagerness to know the truths of life, retained very childlike ideas about marriage.
Which of the following can be inferred from the passage?
Dorothea and Celia do not live in a big city.
Celia and Dorothea are not related.
Sir James Chettam is courting neither Dorothea nor Celia.
Dorothea is particularly interested in the keeping of saddle-horses.
Dorothea is a nun.
Dorothea and Celia do not live in a big city.
This question can be answered by considering the first sentence of the passage’s second paragraph: “The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers, was generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable and innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, like her religion, too unusual and striking.” Notice how the community judging Miss Brooke (a name that signifies Dorothea; you can figure this out by considering its context) and Celia is described as “rural” in “the rural opinion” and consisting in part of “cottagers” (“even among the cottagers”). This allows readers to infer that Dorothea and Celia do not live in a big city.
While Dorothea is portrayed as having unusual religious tendencies, no evidence is presented suggesting that she is specifically a nun. Celia and Dorothea are related; they are sisters, as we are told in the passage’s last paragraph when the narrator says, “indeed, it was pretty to see how [Dorothea’s] imagination adorned her sister Celia with attractions altogether superior to her own.” Sir James Chettam is introduced in the context of being a suitor, though Dorothea considers him to be courting Celia and not herself. Finally, Dorothea is not particularly interested in the keeping of saddle-horses; this point is introduced as a hypothetical in the first paragraph, not as describing her directly: notice the use of the general phrase “such a wife” and the word “might” when it states, “Such a wife might awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme for the application of her income which would interfere with . . . the keeping of saddle-horses.”
Example Question #102 : Drawing Inferences From Prose Fiction Passages
Adapted from “The McWilliamses and the Burglar Alarm” in The Mysterious Stranger and Other Stories by Mark Twain (1898; 1916)
The conversation drifted along from weather to crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of burglar alarms. And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed feeling. Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart. Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion:
"I do not go one single cent on burglar alarms, Mr. Twain—not a single cent—and I will tell you why. When we were finishing our house, we found we had a little cash left over. I was for donating it to charity; but Mrs. McWilliams said no, let's have a burglar alarm. I agreed to this compromise. Whenever I want a thing, and Mrs. McWilliams wants another thing, and we decide upon the thing that Mrs. McWilliams wants—as we always do—she calls that a compromise. Very well: the man came up from New York and put in the alarm, and charged three hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and said we could sleep without uneasiness now. So we did for awhile—say a month. Then one night we smelled smoke. I lit a candle, and started toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark. He was smoking a pipe. I said, 'My friend, we do not allow smoking in this room.' He said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this one, and it had never been objected to before.
"I said: 'Smoke along, then. But what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?’
He looked confused and ashamed, and said, with embarrassment: 'I beg a thousand pardons. I did not know you had a burglar alarm, else I would have rung it. I beg you will not mention it where my parents may hear of it, for they are old and feeble, and such a seemingly wanton breach of the hallowed conventionalities of our civilization might all too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities. May I trouble you for a match?’
"I said: 'Your sentiments do you honor, but metaphor is not your best hold. Spare your thigh; this kind light only on the box. But to return to business: how did you get in here?’”
Which of the following does the first paragraph allow us to infer?
If the person to which the narrator is talking shows feeling in a conversation, the narrator always makes a point to interrupt the speaker before he gets too agitated.
Mr. McWilliams feels neutral about burglar alarms.
Mr. McWilliams didn’t have particularly strong opinions about the topics of conversation that preceded that of burglar alarms.
The conversation that Mr. McWilliams had with Mr. Twain focused on only a couple of topics.
The discussion of topics in the conversation described led logically to that of burglar alarms.
Mr. McWilliams didn’t have particularly strong opinions about the topics of conversation that preceded that of burglar alarms.
Let’s consider each of the answer choices and find out which one the first paragraph supports.
“The conversation that Mr. McWilliams had with Mr. Twain focused on only a couple of topics.” - The first sentence doesn’t support this inference, as it tells us that the conversation covered at least six topics: “The conversation drifted along from weather to crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of burglar alarms.”
“Mr. McWilliams feels neutral about burglar alarms.” - The last three sentences of the first paragraph don’t support this inference: “And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed feeling. Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart. Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion . . . “ At the mention of burglar alarms, Mr. McWilliams “now for the first time . . . showed feeling,” and speaks “with but ill-controlled emotion” about the subject. From this, we can infer that Mr. McWilliams does not feel neutral about burglar alarms; he is emotional about the subject and has some sort of distinct opinion, which he begins explaining in paragraph two.
“If the person to which the narrator is talking shows feeling in a conversation, the narrator always makes a point to interrupt the speaker before he gets too agitated.” - This answer choice relates to the second-to-last sentence in the first paragraph, where the narrator comments, “Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart.” Paraphrasing, the narrator is saying that when he sees that someone he is having a conversation with “shows feeling” about a subject, he lets that person talk and vent his or her emotions. He does not say that he interrupts the speaker at this point.
“The discussion of topics in the conversation described led logically to that of burglar alarms.” - This answer isn’t supported by the first paragraph, as the narrator says that the conversation he was having with Mr. McWilliams “took a random jump, and landed on the subject of burglar alarms.” Thus, the discussion of topics did not logically lead to the subject of burglar alarms.
The correct answer is “Mr. McWilliams didn’t have particularly strong opinions about the topics of conversation that preceded that of burglar alarms.” We can infer this based on how the narrator says that when burglar alarms were mentioned, “And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed feeling.” The use of the phrase “for the first time” tells us that Mr. McWilliams did not “show feeling” about the previous topics that he discussed with the narrator; from this we can infer that he did not have any particularly strong opinions about these topics.
Example Question #1231 : Act Reading
Adapted from “The McWilliamses and the Burglar Alarm” in The Mysterious Stranger and Other Stories by Mark Twain (1898; 1916)
The conversation drifted along from weather to crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of burglar alarms. And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed feeling. Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart. Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion:
"I do not go one single cent on burglar alarms, Mr. Twain—not a single cent—and I will tell you why. When we were finishing our house, we found we had a little cash left over. I was for donating it to charity; but Mrs. McWilliams said no, let's have a burglar alarm. I agreed to this compromise. Whenever I want a thing, and Mrs. McWilliams wants another thing, and we decide upon the thing that Mrs. McWilliams wants—as we always do—she calls that a compromise. Very well: the man came up from New York and put in the alarm, and charged three hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and said we could sleep without uneasiness now. So we did for awhile—say a month. Then one night we smelled smoke. I lit a candle, and started toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark. He was smoking a pipe. I said, 'My friend, we do not allow smoking in this room.' He said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this one, and it had never been objected to before.
"I said: 'Smoke along, then. But what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?’
He looked confused and ashamed, and said, with embarrassment: 'I beg a thousand pardons. I did not know you had a burglar alarm, else I would have rung it. I beg you will not mention it where my parents may hear of it, for they are old and feeble, and such a seemingly wanton breach of the hallowed conventionalities of our civilization might all too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities. May I trouble you for a match?’
"I said: 'Your sentiments do you honor, but metaphor is not your best hold. Spare your thigh; this kind light only on the box. But to return to business: how did you get in here?’”
What is the implied reason that the thief’s smoking a pipe had “never been objected to before,” underlined at the end of the third paragraph?
The thief had never before been caught.
The thief’s pipe filters out most of the smell of the smoke he generates.
The thief only recently started smoking a pipe.
The thief had extinguished his pipe before stealing anything.
The owners of the other houses were embarrassed to object to the thief’s smoking.
The thief had never before been caught.
The passage mentions nothing to encourage the reader to assume that the thief previously extinguished his pipe before stealing anything or that he had only recently started smoking a pipe; it doesn’t include any information that suggests that the thief’s pipe filters out most of the smell of the smoke he generates, or that the owners of the other houses he refers to were embarrassed to object to his smoking. The only answer choice that is supported by the passage is that the thief had never before been caught; this is in line with the implication of his other statements preceding the underlined one—that he “was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the rules of the house,” and that “he had been in many houses just as good as this one.”
Example Question #1 : New Sat Reading
Passage adapted from The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade by Herman Melville (1857)
At sunrise on a first of April, there appeared suddenly a man in cream-colors at the water-side in the city of St. Louis.
His cheek was fair, his chin downy, his hair flaxen, his hat a white fur one, with a long fleecy nap. He had neither trunk, valise, carpet-bag, nor parcel. No porter followed him. He was unaccompanied by friends. From the shrugged shoulders, titters, whispers, wonderings of the crowd, it was plain that he was, in the extremest sense of the word, a stranger.
In the same moment with his advent, he stepped aboard the favorite steamer Fidèle, on the point of starting for New Orleans. Stared at, but unsaluted, with the air of one neither courting nor shunning regard, but evenly pursuing the path of duty, lead it through solitudes or cities, he held on his way along the lower deck until he chanced to come to a placard nigh the captain's office, offering a reward for the capture of a mysterious impostor, supposed to have recently arrived from the East; quite an original genius in his vocation, as would appear, though wherein his originality consisted was not clearly given; but what purported to be a careful description of his person followed.
As if it had been a theatre-bill, crowds were gathered about the announcement, and among them certain chevaliers, whose eyes, it was plain, were on the capitals, or, at least, earnestly seeking sight of them from behind intervening coats; but as for their fingers, they were enveloped in some myth; though, during a chance interval, one of these chevaliers somewhat showed his hand in purchasing from another chevalier, ex-officio a peddler of money-belts, one of his popular safe-guards, while another peddler, who was still another versatile chevalier, hawked, in the thick of the throng, the lives of Measan, the bandit of Ohio, Murrel, the pirate of the Mississippi, and the brothers Harpe, the Thugs of the Green River country, in Kentucky—creatures, with others of the sort, one and all exterminated at the time, and for the most part, like the hunted generations of wolves in the same regions, leaving comparatively few successors; which would seem cause for unalloyed gratulation, and is such to all except those who think that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase.
Pausing at this spot, the stranger so far succeeded in threading his way, as at last to plant himself just beside the placard, when, producing a small slate and tracing some words upon if, he held it up before him on a level with the placard, so that they who read the one might read the other. The words were these:—
"Charity thinketh no evil.”
What is the author implying in his discussion of wolves and foxes at the end of the third paragraph?
Some believe that once the con men and criminals are removed from an area, others take their place.
Wolves are typically only killed off well after humans have settled in an area.
Con men are like wolves, whereas citizens of the general public are like foxes.
Adjusting the balance of a natural ecosystem can have numerous unintended effects on the environment.
If wolves are found in an area, con men are likely also to be found there.
Some believe that once the con men and criminals are removed from an area, others take their place.
The wolves-and-foxes discussion is perhaps the most difficult part of the passage to understand, because the author steps out of telling the story for a moment to make an abstract comparison about events that have already happened. Specifically, the author writes:
“another peddler . . . hawked, in the thick of the throng, the lives of Measan, the bandit of Ohio, Murrel, the pirate of the Mississippi, and the brothers Harpe, the Thugs of the Green River country, in Kentucky—creatures, with others of the sort, one and all exterminated at the time, and for the most part, like the hunted generations of wolves in the same regions, leaving comparatively few successors; which would seem cause for unalloyed gratulation, and is such to all except those who think that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase.”
The wolves are clearly compared to the criminals in that each were “exterminated” in certain areas, but some people think that “where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase.” The foxes take the place of the wolves (comparatively, the criminals), so we can infer that the “foxes” must represent some type of criminal too. We can ignore the answer choice “Adjusting the balance of a natural ecosystem can have numerous unintended effects on the environment” as wolves and foxes are mentioned to be compared to criminals, not to discuss the environment. Foxes are not being compared to citizens of the general public since they take the place of the wolves after the wolves are killed off, so “Con men are like wolves, whereas citizens of the general public are like foxes” cannot be correct either. While wolves are compared to con men, “If wolves are found in an area, con men are likely also to be found there” makes an association that goes beyond the author’s comparison. “Wolves are typically only killed off well after humans have settled in an area” is contradicted by the author’s use of the adjective “new” in describing “those who think that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase.” This suggests that the wolves are killed off relatively quickly after humans settle in an area. This leaves us with the correct answer, “Some believe that once the con men and criminals are removed from an area, others take their place.” This accurately captures the author’s comparison and infers the role of foxes as another type of criminal taking the place of the “wolves.”
Example Question #103 : Drawing Inferences From Prose Fiction Passages
Passage adapted from Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad (1899).
He was the only man of us who still "followed the sea." The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same.
In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut.
But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.
Based on the underlined sentences ("The yarns of seamen...the spectral illumination of moonshine") which of the following describes how the narrator views Marlow's stories as compared to other seamen?
Only sailors can understand the seamen's stories, but anyone can listen to Marlow.
Marlow's stories are more difficult to understand than the seamen's stories.
The seamen tell better stories than Marlow because they see events simplistically.
Marlow and the seamen tell the same stories of life on the ocean.
Marlow sees events in a more complex way than the other seamen, and therefore his stories are more developed.
Marlow sees events in a more complex way than the other seamen, and therefore his stories are more developed.
In these lines, the narrator is explaining that Marlow sees events with more complexity and nuance than the other sailors do and that his tales have more depth than those of the other seamen.
Example Question #104 : Drawing Inferences From Prose Fiction Passages
Passage adapted from Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad (1899).
He was the only man of us who still "followed the sea." The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same.
In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut.
But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.
In can most reasonably be inferred from the passage that the narrator and the seamen are located __________.
on a foreign country's shore
on a river running through an uninhabited rainforest
on the Atlantic Ocean
in the middle of the Pacific Ocean
The characters' location is not specified conclusively in this passage.
The characters' location is not specified conclusively in this passage.
The narrator alludes to the frustration of the crew not being at sea in the second paragraph when he speaks their "slightly disdainful ignorance" for their surroundings, as they prefer the open ocean. The author speaks about the "foreign shores" this discussion is general, and not local to the situation. The passage does not provide conclusive evidence as to the characters' location.
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