单选题 .  SECTION A MULTIPLE CHOICE QUESTIONS
    PASSAGE ONE
    (1) He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his exultation (得意感) had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpish (愠怒的) fool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance, and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so characteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved, but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion? At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never quite be free of it.
    (2) But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile. He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always comforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black, with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They shook hands.
    (3) He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.
    PASSAGE TWO
    (1) After the first 10 short stories in her new collection, Alice Munro inserts a single paragraph on an otherwise blank page, under the heading, Finale: "The final four works in this book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last—and the closest—things I have to say about my own life."
    (2) What follows is a subversive (颠覆性的) challenge to the idea of autobiography: a purposeful melding of fact, fiction and feeling. Like Muriel Spark's Curriculum Vitae and Hilary Mantel's Giving Up the Ghost, Munro's "final four works" will loom like megaliths over all who pick up their pens to write about her in the future.
    (3) "Dear Life" describes the house Munro lived in when she was growing up in Wingham, Ontario, where her mother was a schoolteacher and her father a fur and poultry farmer. "This is not a story, only life," she notes, signalling the pathways, names, coincidences that might have been woven into her fiction, but here are present as memories.
    (4) "Night" revisits Munro's childhood insomnia. Sleeping on a bunk above her younger sister she became frightened of the thought that it would be quite easy to strangle her in the night. Caught walking outside on the porch by her father, also insomniac, Munro remembers confessing her disturbing vision of sororicide. "He said, 'People have those kinds of thoughts sometimes.' He said this quite seriously and without any sort of alarm or jumpy surprise... People have thoughts they'd sooner not have. It happens in life."
    (5) "Voices" recalls a visit to a local dance with Munro's mother that was cut short due to the presence of a mature local prostitute and one of her girls. Munro overheard two air force men from Port Albert comforting the gift on the stairs and stroking her thigh: "I had never in my life heard a man speak in that way, treating a woman as if she was so fine and valued a creature that whatever it was, whatever unkindness had come near her, was somehow a breach of a law, a sin."
    (6) "The Eye" is the most majestic of Munro's monuments to memory. She remembers being taken, the year she started school, to see the dead body of a young woman whom her mother had hired to help after the birth of Munro's younger siblings. Encouraged to look into the coffin, she thought she saw the young woman slightly open one eye: a private signal to her alone. "Good for you," her mother said, as they left the grieving household.
    (7) It is fascinating to compare this with the end of the story "Amundsen" earlier in the collection. Two people who were lovers long ago meet unexpectedly crossing a Toronto street.
    (8) The man opens one of his eyes slightly wider than the other and asks, "How are you?" "Happy," she says. "Good for you," he replies.
    (9) In this book, Munro has laid bare the foundations of her fiction as never before. Lovers of her writing must hope this is not, in fact, her finale. But if it is, it's spectacular.
    PASSAGE THREE
    (1) Where Latin American history is so much the story of disappointment—the burden of unfulfilled promise having weighed heavily on the region—football in many ways remains her greatest achievement. When, in 2007, Brazil was named host nation for the 2014 Fifa World Cup, the country's then president stated that "football is more than a sport for us, it's a national passion".
    (2) He was, however, mistaken. Football in Latin America is much more than a passion: it is the architect of national identity, whereas Europe fashioned her identity early, it was not until the 20th century that Latin American republics were able to consolidate the myths that would shape nationhood. For many, this bordered on an obsession.
    (3) As early as the 1910s, identity was being constructed by international football. When faced with a stained past and uncertain future, it was through the game that the continent defined itself in relation to the rest of the world. Latin Americans still see football as their birthright, even though it was born of the British sporting clubs that were established in the region in the 19th century. Football in Latin America is where sentimentality and violence jockey for position. In short, the continent's soul is reflected in her football.
    (4) In the early Thirties, the celebrated travel writer and adventurer, Rosita Forbes, spent a year in South America, where she encountered "half a dozen coups d'état, military and civilian". For South Americans, this was nothing new. These republics, for the most part proto-democratic, had spent much of the previous century fighting wars within their borders and without.
    (5) Bolivia, for example, had been humiliated in the War of the Pacific, the peace settlement of which left her without access to the coast. Not only was she poor: she was landlocked. (This was something that football fans from neighbouring countries would not let her forget.)
    (6) The onset of the 20th century was unlikely to eradicate the bloodletting that had become part of the psyche of so many of these nascent (新生的) republics. Argentina had been a prime offender. This was not lost on V. S. Naipaul, who noted, "the idea of blood and revolution, in unending sequence: just one more fresh start, the finding out and killing of just one more enemy".
    (7) For Forbes these traits were manifest in football. "It has been suggested by cynics," she wrote, "that football is almost as great a danger to the peace of South America as the politics of soldiers, students and artisans. Both sports are flavoured with a fanaticism only equalled by the Inquisition." Moreover, she noted that the diplomatic spat (争吵) between Argentina and Uruguay in 1932 could be "traced to the bitterness on one side and the impolitic rejoicing on the other which followed the defeat of the larger republic in the stadium of Montevideo".
    (8) This bitterness had history. For a country that, in the mind of the Argentinian, was dismissed as a mere province, it was irritating that Uruguay had won gold in football at the 1924 Paris Olympics, a feat they repeated four years later in Amsterdam. Hosting and winning the inaugural World Cup in 1930 confirmed the country's supremacy in the region. And yet triumph in Europe was not solely about the game; it had greater significance for the diminutive republic.1.  How did Philip feel when realizing the woman was someone unknown? ______ (PASSAGE ONE)