SAT Prep - Question List

466. Adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”
Anxiety, dread, apprehension…regardless of what you call it, it remains the same. It consumes me in the morning, during the day, in the evening, and creeps into the darkest hours of the night. Some say it’s a disease. Others regard it more as a choice. Whatever it is; my senses are no longer the same. My hearing is acute; my vision is obsolete. The lightest of touches sends shivers to every nerve in my body. Mad, I may seem, but with every ounce of my faculties, I will replay the events of that unfortunate day.
One that suffers as I do is often perplexed with ideas that enter the brain with no real knowledge of when or where they were conceived. This was the case when the fine line between love and hate became entangled in a series of actions that would forever haunt me.
An old man and I had met some years back. We became friends, and he was now living in my home. He had wealth, this was true, but it was not my desire. His words were never demeaning, so it was not this that could be blamed for my failed attempts at restricting the desires within my mind. Looking back, I loved this elderly man. But, there amongst the pleasantries of this seemingly normal man - there IT was- his eye, vulture-like, and the constant disturber of my peace.
It was obscure to some, but for me, my daily encounter with his eye caused my anxieties to multiply at an alarming rate, requiring response and action. The cloudy blue emptiness of this orb seemed innocent to some, but to me, every time it captured my vision, I became frozen in time. It was only three evenings ago that I decided its coldness would beset me for the final time. Call it the moment when I transitioned from a fiery man with a zest for life to a lunatic. Call it what you may…
The old man always went to bed early, especially with the shortening days leading to earlier and earlier sunsets. Every evening, I watched, studied, observed, and even recorded his routine. After only two evenings, I had deemed him predictable, but even amidst such predictability, I wanted to be sure, so I watched him for five more nights. It was on the seventh evening that I had decided this emptiness was going to tranquilize me in fear no more.
I moved slowly, cautiously…careful to note that not even a finger had quivered in the generously-sized bed. After inching myself into the room, I fingered the miniscule dagger in the safety net of my pocket. A single groan emanated from his slumber. I began to retract my steps, but there were no more sounds. I knew it had to be now.
The old man’s hour had come. Once and for all, I had to see if the destruction of this repulsion could compel me back to sanity. It was this torturous villain that had I sought, launching my dagger into the intricacies of its design.
Remorse? None! Pity? None! Repentance? None!
He was dead. The eye would frighten me no more. Finally, it remained hidden under the natural blanket of man’s design. I giggled. Perhaps, that was the proof that my sanity was not returning.
Then, I heard it…that awful noise. Could anything be worse than the wildness of that peering tool that had teased, taunted, and tormented me upon every meeting? It grew louder, stronger, intensifying…the heart, oh the heart…. Its escalating sound drove me to my knees, screaming out in agony. Begging for release.
I tore up the boards. Threw the body underneath. Replaced the boards. Ran outside to clear my mind, my ears, my senses. As I re-entered, the sound remained…a single beating heart following the rhythm of life. Unable to listen to its ghostly repetition, I removed the dagger from my pocket once more. In combining my own life-sustaining liquid with the innocent man’s, for a fleeting moment, I was free from the insanity that had beguiled me. Then I too was nothing more than a memory, encapsulated by the memories of those that would hear my story and know the reality of that unfortunate day.



Why does the author refer to himself “as free for a fleeting moment” in line 45?

467. Adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”
Anxiety, dread, apprehension…regardless of what you call it, it remains the same. It consumes me in the morning, during the day, in the evening, and creeps into the darkest hours of the night. Some say it’s a disease. Others regard it more as a choice. Whatever it is; my senses are no longer the same. My hearing is acute; my vision is obsolete. The lightest of touches sends shivers to every nerve in my body. Mad, I may seem, but with every ounce of my faculties, I will replay the events of that unfortunate day.
One that suffers as I do is often perplexed with ideas that enter the brain with no real knowledge of when or where they were conceived. This was the case when the fine line between love and hate became entangled in a series of actions that would forever haunt me.
An old man and I had met some years back. We became friends, and he was now living in my home. He had wealth, this was true, but it was not my desire. His words were never demeaning, so it was not this that could be blamed for my failed attempts at restricting the desires within my mind. Looking back, I loved this elderly man. But, there amongst the pleasantries of this seemingly normal man - there IT was- his eye, vulture-like, and the constant disturber of my peace.
It was obscure to some, but for me, my daily encounter with his eye caused my anxieties to multiply at an alarming rate, requiring response and action. The cloudy blue emptiness of this orb seemed innocent to some, but to me, every time it captured my vision, I became frozen in time. It was only three evenings ago that I decided its coldness would beset me for the final time. Call it the moment when I transitioned from a fiery man with a zest for life to a lunatic. Call it what you may…
The old man always went to bed early, especially with the shortening days leading to earlier and earlier sunsets. Every evening, I watched, studied, observed, and even recorded his routine. After only two evenings, I had deemed him predictable, but even amidst such predictability, I wanted to be sure, so I watched him for five more nights. It was on the seventh evening that I had decided this emptiness was going to tranquilize me in fear no more.
I moved slowly, cautiously…careful to note that not even a finger had quivered in the generously-sized bed. After inching myself into the room, I fingered the miniscule dagger in the safety net of my pocket. A single groan emanated from his slumber. I began to retract my steps, but there were no more sounds. I knew it had to be now.
The old man’s hour had come. Once and for all, I had to see if the destruction of this repulsion could compel me back to sanity. It was this torturous villain that had I sought, launching my dagger into the intricacies of its design.
Remorse? None! Pity? None! Repentance? None!
He was dead. The eye would frighten me no more. Finally, it remained hidden under the natural blanket of man’s design. I giggled. Perhaps, that was the proof that my sanity was not returning.
Then, I heard it…that awful noise. Could anything be worse than the wildness of that peering tool that had teased, taunted, and tormented me upon every meeting? It grew louder, stronger, intensifying…the heart, oh the heart…. Its escalating sound drove me to my knees, screaming out in agony. Begging for release.
I tore up the boards. Threw the body underneath. Replaced the boards. Ran outside to clear my mind, my ears, my senses. As I re-entered, the sound remained…a single beating heart following the rhythm of life. Unable to listen to its ghostly repetition, I removed the dagger from my pocket once more. In combining my own life-sustaining liquid with the innocent man’s, for a fleeting moment, I was free from the insanity that had beguiled me. Then I too was nothing more than a memory, encapsulated by the memories of those that would hear my story and know the reality of that unfortunate day.



What skill does the narrator have that is considered both a blessing and a curse?

468. Adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”
Anxiety, dread, apprehension…regardless of what you call it, it remains the same. It consumes me in the morning, during the day, in the evening, and creeps into the darkest hours of the night. Some say it’s a disease. Others regard it more as a choice. Whatever it is; my senses are no longer the same. My hearing is acute; my vision is obsolete. The lightest of touches sends shivers to every nerve in my body. Mad, I may seem, but with every ounce of my faculties, I will replay the events of that unfortunate day.
One that suffers as I do is often perplexed with ideas that enter the brain with no real knowledge of when or where they were conceived. This was the case when the fine line between love and hate became entangled in a series of actions that would forever haunt me.
An old man and I had met some years back. We became friends, and he was now living in my home. He had wealth, this was true, but it was not my desire. His words were never demeaning, so it was not this that could be blamed for my failed attempts at restricting the desires within my mind. Looking back, I loved this elderly man. But, there amongst the pleasantries of this seemingly normal man - there IT was- his eye, vulture-like, and the constant disturber of my peace.
It was obscure to some, but for me, my daily encounter with his eye caused my anxieties to multiply at an alarming rate, requiring response and action. The cloudy blue emptiness of this orb seemed innocent to some, but to me, every time it captured my vision, I became frozen in time. It was only three evenings ago that I decided its coldness would beset me for the final time. Call it the moment when I transitioned from a fiery man with a zest for life to a lunatic. Call it what you may…
The old man always went to bed early, especially with the shortening days leading to earlier and earlier sunsets. Every evening, I watched, studied, observed, and even recorded his routine. After only two evenings, I had deemed him predictable, but even amidst such predictability, I wanted to be sure, so I watched him for five more nights. It was on the seventh evening that I had decided this emptiness was going to tranquilize me in fear no more.
I moved slowly, cautiously…careful to note that not even a finger had quivered in the generously-sized bed. After inching myself into the room, I fingered the miniscule dagger in the safety net of my pocket. A single groan emanated from his slumber. I began to retract my steps, but there were no more sounds. I knew it had to be now.
The old man’s hour had come. Once and for all, I had to see if the destruction of this repulsion could compel me back to sanity. It was this torturous villain that had I sought, launching my dagger into the intricacies of its design.
Remorse? None! Pity? None! Repentance? None!
He was dead. The eye would frighten me no more. Finally, it remained hidden under the natural blanket of man’s design. I giggled. Perhaps, that was the proof that my sanity was not returning.
Then, I heard it…that awful noise. Could anything be worse than the wildness of that peering tool that had teased, taunted, and tormented me upon every meeting? It grew louder, stronger, intensifying…the heart, oh the heart…. Its escalating sound drove me to my knees, screaming out in agony. Begging for release.
I tore up the boards. Threw the body underneath. Replaced the boards. Ran outside to clear my mind, my ears, my senses. As I re-entered, the sound remained…a single beating heart following the rhythm of life. Unable to listen to its ghostly repetition, I removed the dagger from my pocket once more. In combining my own life-sustaining liquid with the innocent man’s, for a fleeting moment, I was free from the insanity that had beguiled me. Then I too was nothing more than a memory, encapsulated by the memories of those that would hear my story and know the reality of that unfortunate day.



Based on the details provided about the setting, the story MOST LIKELY takes place:

469. Adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”
Anxiety, dread, apprehension…regardless of what you call it, it remains the same. It consumes me in the morning, during the day, in the evening, and creeps into the darkest hours of the night. Some say it’s a disease. Others regard it more as a choice. Whatever it is; my senses are no longer the same. My hearing is acute; my vision is obsolete. The lightest of touches sends shivers to every nerve in my body. Mad, I may seem, but with every ounce of my faculties, I will replay the events of that unfortunate day.
One that suffers as I do is often perplexed with ideas that enter the brain with no real knowledge of when or where they were conceived. This was the case when the fine line between love and hate became entangled in a series of actions that would forever haunt me.
An old man and I had met some years back. We became friends, and he was now living in my home. He had wealth, this was true, but it was not my desire. His words were never demeaning, so it was not this that could be blamed for my failed attempts at restricting the desires within my mind. Looking back, I loved this elderly man. But, there amongst the pleasantries of this seemingly normal man - there IT was- his eye, vulture-like, and the constant disturber of my peace.
It was obscure to some, but for me, my daily encounter with his eye caused my anxieties to multiply at an alarming rate, requiring response and action. The cloudy blue emptiness of this orb seemed innocent to some, but to me, every time it captured my vision, I became frozen in time. It was only three evenings ago that I decided its coldness would beset me for the final time. Call it the moment when I transitioned from a fiery man with a zest for life to a lunatic. Call it what you may…
The old man always went to bed early, especially with the shortening days leading to earlier and earlier sunsets. Every evening, I watched, studied, observed, and even recorded his routine. After only two evenings, I had deemed him predictable, but even amidst such predictability, I wanted to be sure, so I watched him for five more nights. It was on the seventh evening that I had decided this emptiness was going to tranquilize me in fear no more.
I moved slowly, cautiously…careful to note that not even a finger had quivered in the generously-sized bed. After inching myself into the room, I fingered the miniscule dagger in the safety net of my pocket. A single groan emanated from his slumber. I began to retract my steps, but there were no more sounds. I knew it had to be now.
The old man’s hour had come. Once and for all, I had to see if the destruction of this repulsion could compel me back to sanity. It was this torturous villain that had I sought, launching my dagger into the intricacies of its design.
Remorse? None! Pity? None! Repentance? None!
He was dead. The eye would frighten me no more. Finally, it remained hidden under the natural blanket of man’s design. I giggled. Perhaps, that was the proof that my sanity was not returning.
Then, I heard it…that awful noise. Could anything be worse than the wildness of that peering tool that had teased, taunted, and tormented me upon every meeting? It grew louder, stronger, intensifying…the heart, oh the heart…. Its escalating sound drove me to my knees, screaming out in agony. Begging for release.
I tore up the boards. Threw the body underneath. Replaced the boards. Ran outside to clear my mind, my ears, my senses. As I re-entered, the sound remained…a single beating heart following the rhythm of life. Unable to listen to its ghostly repetition, I removed the dagger from my pocket once more. In combining my own life-sustaining liquid with the innocent man’s, for a fleeting moment, I was free from the insanity that had beguiled me. Then I too was nothing more than a memory, encapsulated by the memories of those that would hear my story and know the reality of that unfortunate day.



Emanated (line 29) most likely means:

470. The Mongols: More than just Another Nomadic Tribe

The Mongol people were an atypical nomadic people. Unlike other nomads, these warriors were not farmers, nor did they contribute to the development of civilizations. Their focus was simple: overtaking and dominating others.
While farming was not advantageous for the Mongols, they did seek to domesticate animals. This sufficed in enriching their food supply and their ability to create other products. Additionally, their culture was void of elaborate designs; there were no impressive agricultural wonders produced by the Mongols, instead they worked to promote equality across the boundaries of gender stereotypes.
While many cultures saw women as inferior to men, the Mongolians saw women as invaluable contributors. Mongolian women made many contributions, serving as mentors and outspoken members of society regarding military matters. In short, the Mongolians realized that it took everyone working together to maintain supremacy and dominance.
Without a doubt, the Mongols were unique in their warrior-like ways. Certainly, they do not fit the stereotypical concept of a pastoral nomadic tribe.



As used in the opening sentence of the third paragraph, what does the word inferior MOST LIKELY mean?