Read the except about the vietnam war from ambul by tim o’brien when she was nine, my daughter kathleen asked if i had ever killed anyone. she knew about the war, she knew i'd been a soldier "you keep writing war stories," she said, "so i guess you must've killed somebody"it was a difficult moment, but i did what seemed right, which was to say, "of course not," and then to take her onto my lap and hold her for a while. someday. i hope, she'll ask again. but here! want to pretend she's a grown-up. i want to tell her exactly what happened, or what i remember happening, and then i want to say to her that as a little girl she was absolutely right. this is why i keep writing war stories: he was a short, slender young man of about twenty. i was afraid of him afraid of something and as he passed me on the trail i threw a grenade that exploded at his feet and killed even now i haven't finished sorting it out. sometimes i forgive myself, other times i don't. in the ordinary hours of life i try not to dwell on it, but now and then, when i'm reading a newspaper or just sitting alone in a room, i'll look up and see the young man coming out of the morning fog. i'll watch him walk toward me, his shoulders slightly stooped, his head cocked to the side, and he'll pass within a few yards of me and suddenly smile at some secret thought and then continue up the trail to where it bends back into the fog how does the author's specific word choice and stylistic devices affect the excerpt's tone? be sure to use specific details from the text to support your answer

In this chapter, maya describes her confusion about lesbianism. she wrongly thought that were the same as lesbians.

Select the contred text in the passage which sentence in this excerpt from john galsworthy's narrative essay "gone" reflects his view that there is no afterlife? an old woman and mrs. herd's sister were in the sitting-room, they showed us to the crazy, narrow stairway. though we lived distant but four hundred yards of a crows flight, we had never seen mrs. herd before, for that is the way of things in this land of minding one's own business a slight dark girlish-looking woman, almost quite refined away, and with those eyes of the dying, where the spirit is coming through, as it only does when it knows that al is over except just the passing. she lay in a double bed with clean white sheets. a white-washed room, so low that the ceiling almost touched our heads, some flowers in a bow, the small lattice window open. though it was hot in there, it was better far than the rooms of most families in towns, living on a wage of twice as much, for here was no sign of defeat in decency or cleanliness. in her face, as in poor herd's, was that same strange minging of resigned despair and almost eager appeal, so terrible to disappoint. yet, trying not to disappoint it, one felt guilty of treachery: what was the good, the kindness in making this poor bird flutter still with hope against the bars, when fast prison had so surely closed in round her? but what else could we do? we could not give her those glib assurances that naive souls make so easily to others concerning their after state. and the night was so beautiful, so utterly glamourously beautiful, with its star-flowers, and its silence and its trees clothed in moonlight. all was tranquil as a dream of sleep. but it was long before our hearts wandering with poor herd, would let us remember that she had slipped away into so beautiful a dream

How would “in a station or the metro” change of the bough was bright and lovely rather than wet and black a: the station would seem cheerier b: the poem would not be considered imagist c: the people would seem less pleasant. d: the poem would no longer be hokku