Questions 1-11 are based on the following passage.The following passage is adapted from Patrick Waddington, The Street That Got Mislaid, ©Patrick Waddington, 1954.
Marc Girondin had worked in the ﬁling section of the city
hall's engineering department for so long that the city was
laid out in his mind like a map, full of names and places,
intersecting streets and streets that led nowhere, blind alleys
5 and winding lanes.
In all Montreal no one possessed such knowledge; a dozen
policemen and taxi drivers together could not rival him. That
is not to say that he actually knew the streets whose names he
could recite like a series of incantations, for he did little
10 walking. He knew simply of their existence, where they
were, and in what relation they stood to others.
But it was enough to make him a specialist. He was
undisputed expert of the ﬁling cabinets where all the
particulars of all the streets from Abbott to Zotique were
15 indexed, back, forward and across. Those aristocrats, the
engineers, the inspectors of water mains and the like, all
came to him when they wanted some little particular, some
detail, in a hurry. They might despise him as a lowly clerk,
but they needed him all the same.
20 Marc much preferred his ofﬁce, despite the profound lack
of excitement of his work, to his room on Oven Street
(running north and south from Sherbrooke East to St.
Catherine), where his neighbors were noisy and sometimes
violent, and his landlady consistently so. He tried to explain
25 the meaning of his existence once to a fellow tenant, Louis,
but without much success. Louis, when he got the drift, was
apt to sneer.
"So Craig latches on to Bleury and Bleury gets to be Park,
so who cares? Why the excitement?"
30 "I will show you," said Marc. "Tell me, ﬁrst, where you
"Are you crazy? Here on Oven Street. Where else?"
"How do you know?"
"How do I know? I'm here, ain't I? I pay my rent, don't I? I
35 get my mail here, don't I?"
Marc shook his head patiently.
"None of that is evidence," he said."You live here on
Oven Street because it says so in my ﬁling cabinet at city
hall. The post ofﬁce sends you mail because my card index
40 tells it to. If my cards didn't say so, you wouldn't exist and
Oven Street wouldn't either. That, my friend, is the triumph
Louis walked away in disgust. "Try telling that to the
landlady," he muttered.
45 So Marc continued on his undistinguished career, his
fortieth birthday came and went without remark, day after
day passed uneventfully. A street was renamed, another
constructed, a third widened; it all went carefully into the
ﬁles, back, forward and across.
50 And then something happened that ﬁlled him with
amazement, shocked him beyond measure, and made the
world of the ﬁling cabinets tremble to their steel bases.
One August afternoon, opening a drawer to its fullest
extent, he felt something catch. Exploring farther, he
55 discovered a card stuck at the back between the top and
bottom. He drew it out and found it to be an old index card,
dirty and torn, but still perfectly decipherable. It was labeled
RUE DE LA BOUTEILLE VERTE, or GREEN BOTTLE
60 Marc stared at it in wonder. He had never heard of the
place or of anything resembling so odd a name. Undoubtedly
it had been retitled in some other fashion beﬁtting the
modern tendency. He checked the listed details and rufﬂed
conﬁdently through the master ﬁle of street names. It was not
65 there. He made another search, careful and protracted,
through the cabinets. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Once more he examined the card. There was no mistake.
The date of the last regular street inspection was exactly
ﬁfteen years, ﬁve months and fourteen days ago.
70 As the awful truth burst upon him, Marc dropped the card
in horror, then pounced on it again fearfully, glancing over
his shoulder as he did so.
It was a lost, a forgotten street. For ﬁfteen years and more
it had existed in the heart of Montreal, not half a mile from
75 city hall, and no one had known. It had simply dropped out
of sight, a stone in water.