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The day the cat was killed, Maddy watched her mother wind that old clock with her same little smile, cranking the gold key into its funny little hole, as grandma wandered around the dining table in her dressing gown while her nurse read a pulp fiction on the front step, while her brothers scraped their forks against the table and dripped the last bits of potatoes and corn from their open, awful mouths, that clock sat heavy on the white carpet, at the end of the hall, mom humming along to that terrible ticking. It made Maddy's teeth clench. Truly, there was no point to these silly, endless family dinners. Always being six o’clock sharp and never over until that clock was wound, thirteen years of her life wasted for this nonsense so far, burnt up in boredom, when all the while she had some very important matters to attend to back in her bedroom.
The long-case clock had been left by the previous owner, or maybe the one before that, no one was sure. Cloaked in pine wood and always counting, no birds printed around the clock face, no farm scenes or flowers, just black numbers and wiry hands and that was that. Then near the bottom, a long silver pendulum behind a square of Smokey glass. It was too heavy to tip, too tall to place anything onto, old and faded and always suspect. Her brothers avoid edit at night and the cat avoided it entirely (or used to). The clock face glowing round and white, over the wooden suit, like a pale faced ghost or a porcelain reaper, feetless and shadows for arms. And mom would sing along with the pendulum while the boys knocked over the kitchen chairs wrestling and playing tag, and grandmother would nap byte television and the nurse would paint her nails. All the time, her mom would smile and hum.
Directions:
Read the given passage and answer the questions that follow (Q. No. 112 to 120) by selecting the most appropriate option.The day the cat was killed, Maddy watched her mother wind that old clock with her same little smile, cranking the gold key into its funny little hole, as grandma wandered around the dining table in her dressing gown while her nurse read a pulp fiction on the front step, while her brothers scraped their forks against the table and dripped the last bits of potatoes and corn from their open, awful mouths, that clock sat heavy on the white carpet, at the end of the hall, mom humming along to that terrible ticking. It made Maddy's teeth clench. Truly, there was no point to these silly, endless family dinners. Always being six o’clock sharp and never over until that clock was wound, thirteen years of her life wasted for this nonsense so far, burnt up in boredom, when all the while she had some very important matters to attend to back in her bedroom.
The long-case clock had been left by the previous owner, or maybe the one before that, no one was sure. Cloaked in pine wood and always counting, no birds printed around the clock face, no farm scenes or flowers, just black numbers and wiry hands and that was that. Then near the bottom, a long silver pendulum behind a square of Smokey glass. It was too heavy to tip, too tall to place anything onto, old and faded and always suspect. Her brothers avoid edit at night and the cat avoided it entirely (or used to). The clock face glowing round and white, over the wooden suit, like a pale faced ghost or a porcelain reaper, feetless and shadows for arms. And mom would sing along with the pendulum while the boys knocked over the kitchen chairs wrestling and playing tag, and grandmother would nap byte television and the nurse would paint her nails. All the time, her mom would smile and hum.
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