Introductory Statistics Using SPSS 2nd Edition Knapp Solutions Manual 1
Introductory Statistics Using SPSS 2nd Edition Knapp Solutions Manual 1
Introductory Statistics
Using SPSS 2nd Edition
Knapp Solutions Manual
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Exercise Page
Chapter 5 5.6A ................. 32
5.6B ................. 35
t Test and Mann-Whitney U Test
5.7A ................. 38
Solutions to All Exercises 5.7B ................. 41
5.8A ................. 44
5.8B ................. 47
5.9A ................. 50
Exercise Page 5.9B ................. 53
5.1A....................2 5.10A ............... 56
5.1B....................5 5.10B ............... 59
5.2A....................8
5.2B..................11
5.3A..................14
5.3B..................17
5.4A..................20
5.4B..................23
5.5A..................26
5.5B..................29
Knapp, Introductory Statistics Using SPSS, Second Edition. © 2017, SAGE Publications.
2
(a)
H0: Practicing meditation for 30 minutes a day, 3 days a week has no effect on resting
pulse rate.
H1: Practicing meditation for 30 minutes a day, 3 days a week for 2 weeks affects
resting pulse rate.
(b)
Histograms with normal curve plots show a normal distribution of pulse for both groups
as shown in the two figures below, hence, the pretest criterion of normality is satisfied.
Knapp, Introductory Statistics Using SPSS, Second Edition. © 2017, SAGE Publications.
3
Normal distribution for pulse in Group 2 (Meditated 30 minutes a day, 3 days per week)
The homogeneity of variance score shows a significance (p) of .766; since this is
greater than the level of .05, this suggests that there is no statistically significant
difference between the variances of the two groups, hence, this pretest criterion passes.
The n for each group, as shown in the Descriptives table below is 35 for each group;
since the ns are greater than 30, this criterion passes also.
Knapp, Introductory Statistics Using SPSS, Second Edition. © 2017, SAGE Publications.
4
(c)
The t test revealed the following:
Descriptives
pulse
ANOVA
pulse
The mean pulse rate for Group 1 (No meditation) is 97.40, whereas the mean pulse rate
for Group 2 (Meditated 30 minutes, 3 days per week) is 92.20. This 5.2-point difference
is statistically significant since the significance (p) is .003 (which is less than the .05
level).
(d)
This study analyzed the effects that meditation had on resting pulse rates. The subjects
were randomly assigned to one of two groups; the group that did not meditate, and the
other group that meditated for 30 minute on Monday, Wednesday and Friday for 2
weeks. Results revealed a mean resting pulse rate of 97.40 for those who did not
meditate, and 92.20 for those who did meditate. Using a .05 level, the p value of .003
suggests that meditation does facilitate a significant reduction in resting pulse rate,
hence, we reject H0. These findings suggest support for H1, specifically, that practicing
meditation for 30 minutes a day, 3 days a week for 2 weeks affected the mean resting
pulse rate among these participants.
Knapp, Introductory Statistics Using SPSS, Second Edition. © 2017, SAGE Publications.
5
(a)
H0: Practicing meditation for 30 minutes a day, 3 days a week has no effect on
resting pulse rate.
H1: Practicing meditation for 30 minutes a day, 3 days a week for 2 weeks affects
resting pulse rate.
(b) Histograms with normal curve plots show a normal distribution of pulse for both
groups as shown in the two figures below, hence, the pretest criterion of normality is
satisfied.
Knapp, Introductory Statistics Using SPSS, Second Edition. © 2017, SAGE Publications.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mrs. Benson called and talked about Richard, and she looked at Joan
as she spoke. She would have liked her Richard to have this girl, if, as
she had begun to suspect, he had set his heart on her.
"You and Richard have so much in common, Joan; he's always writing
to me about you."
Mrs. Ogden said nothing.
"When are you going to Cambridge?" Mrs. Benson continued
hurriedly, bridging an awkward pause.
Joan looked at her mother, but she was still silent.
"Aren't you going?" Mrs. Benson persisted.
Joan hesitated. "Well, you see, it's rather difficult just now——"
"She doesn't want to leave me," said Mrs. Ogden with a little smile.
"She thinks I'm such a helpless creature!"
"But, surely——" Mrs. Benson began, and then stopped.
The atmosphere of this house was beginning to depress her, and in a
sudden flash she realized the cause of her depression. There was
something shabby about everything here, both physical and mental.
Inanimate things, and people, were letting themselves go, sliding; Mrs.
Ogden was sliding very fast—and Joan? She let her eyes dwell on the
girl attentively. No, Joan had only begun to slip a little as yet, but there
were signs; her mouth drooped too much at the corners, her lips were too
pale and her strong hands fidgeted restlessly, but otherwise she was
intact so far, and how spruce she looked! Mrs. Benson envied this talent
for tidiness, which had never been hers. Yes, on the whole, Joan's clothes
suited her, it would be difficult to conceive of her dressed otherwise;
still, the short hair was rather exaggerated. She wondered if Richard
would make her let it grow when they were married, for, of course, she
would marry him in the end.
"So Elizabeth has gone to London," she said after a silence, feeling
that she had made a bad slip the moment the words were out.
"Yes, she went more than a week ago," Joan replied.
Mrs. Ogden looked up with interest. "But surely not for long? How
queer of you not to have told me, dear."
"I thought I had," said Joan untruthfully.
"I heard from her this morning," Mrs. Benson plunged on, feeling that
she might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. "She's got a very good
post as librarian to some society."
Then Elizabeth was in London!
"Well, of all the extraordinary things!" said Mrs. Ogden, genuinely
surprised. "Joan, you never told me a word!"
"I didn't know about the post as librarian, Mother."
"No, but you knew that Elizabeth had left Seabourne for good."
"Yes, I knew that——"
"Well then, fancy your not telling me; fancy her not coming here to
say good-bye—extraordinary!" Her voice was shaking a little with
excitement now. "What made her go off suddenly, like that? Surely you
and she haven't quarrelled, Joan?"
Joan looked at Mrs. Benson; did she know? Probably, as Elizabeth
had written to her. Mrs. Benson smiled and nodded sympathetically, her
motherly eyes said plainly: "Never mind, dear, it's not so bad as you
think; you've got my Richard." But Joan ignored the comfort. What
could Mrs. Benson know of all this, what could anyone know but
Elizabeth and herself.
She said: "I think she was tired of Seabourne, Mother. Elizabeth was
always very clever, and there's nothing to be clever about here."
Mrs. Ogden smiled quietly. "Elizabeth was certainly very clever; but
what about her interest in you?"
"Yes, she took a great interest in me; she believed in me, I think, but
—oh, well, she couldn't wait for ever, could she?"
She thought: "If they go on like this I shall scream!"
"Well, I must be going," said Mrs. Benson uncomfortably. "Come up
to-morrow and lunch with me, Joan; half-past one, and I hope you'll
come too, Mrs. Ogden."
Mrs. Ogden sighed. "I never go anywhere since James's death. It may
be morbid of me, but I feel I can't bear to, somehow."
"Oh, but do come, please. We shall be quite alone and it'll do you
good."
The smile that played round Mrs. Ogden's lips was apologetic and
sad; it seemed to repudiate gently the suggestion that anything, however
kindly meant, could do her good, now.
"I think not," she said, pressing Mrs. Benson's hand. "But thank you
all the same for wanting such a dull guest."
Mrs. Benson thought: "A tiresome woman; she's overdoing her
bereavement, poor thing."
The door had scarcely closed on the departing guest when Mrs.
Ogden turned to her daughter. "Is this true?" she demanded, holding out
her hands.
"Is what true?"
"About Elizabeth."
"Oh, for God's sake!" exclaimed Joan gruffly, "don't let's go into all
that. Elizabeth has gone away, isn't that enough? Aren't you satisfied?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Ogden, and her voice was wonderfully firm and self-
possessed. "I am quite satisfied, Joan."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She carolled, and clapped triumphantly. Joan could hear her from her
bedroom upstairs.
Mrs. Ogden heard her too. "Ethel!" she called irritably; "not so much
noise, please." She closed her door sharply and kneeling down in front of
a newly acquired picture of The Holy Family, began to read a long
Matinal Devotion—for Mrs. Ogden was becoming religious. The
presence of spring in her room coloured her prayers, giving them an
impish vitality. She entreated God with a new note of sincerity and
conviction to cast all evil spirits into Hell and keep them there for ever
and ever. She made an elaborate private confession, striking her breast
considerably more often than the prescribed number of times. "Through
my fault, through my fault——" she murmured ecstatically.
"I shan't come home this summer," he wrote. "I can't see you
withering on your stalk. You can marry me if you like; why not,
since nothing better offers? But what's the good of talking to you?
It's hopeless! I don't know why I waste time in writing; I suppose
it's because I'm in love with you. You've disappointed me horribly; I
could have stood aside for your work, but you don't want to work,
and you make your duty to your mother the excuse. Oh, Joan! I did
think you were made of better stuff. I thought you were a real
person and not just a bit of flabby toast like the rest of the things at
Seabourne."
She had said that she cared less than nothing for his approval or
disapproval, but she found she did care after all; not because she loved
Richard, but because it was being brought home to her that she, like the
rest of mankind, needed approbation. No one approved of her, not even
the mother for whose sake she was sacrificing herself. Self-sacrifice was
unpopular, it seemed, or was it in some way her own fault? She must be
different from other people, a kind of unprepossessing freak. She sat
brooding over this at the school-room table, with Richard's last epistle
crushed in her hand. Her eyes were bent unseeing on the ink-stained
mahogany, but something, perhaps it was a faint sound, made her look
up. Elizabeth was standing in the doorway gazing at her.
Joan sprang forward with a cry.
"Hallo, Joan," said Elizabeth calmly, and sat down in the arm-chair.
Joan's voice failed her. She stood and stared, afraid to believe her
eyes.
Elizabeth waited; then: "Well?" she queried.
Joan found her voice. "You've come back for the holidays? Thank you
for coming to see me."
Elizabeth said: "There's no need to thank me; I came because I wanted
to; don't be ridiculous, Joan!"
"But I thought—I understood that you'd had enough of me. I thought
my failing you had made you hate me."
"No, I don't hate you, or I shouldn't be here."
"Then I don't understand," said Joan desperately. "Oh! I don't
understand!"
Elizabeth said: "No, I know you don't. I don't understand myself, but
here I am."
They were silent for a while, eyeing each other like duellists waiting
for an opening. Elizabeth leant back in the rickety chair, her enigmatical
eyes on the girl's agitated face. She was smiling a little.
"What have you come for?" said Joan, flushing with sudden anger. "If
you don't mean to stay, why have you come back to Seabourne? Perhaps
you've come to jeer at me. Even Richard hasn't done that!"
Elizabeth stretched her long legs and made as if to stifle a yawn. "I've
given up my job," she said.
"You've given up your job in London?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Because of you."
"Because of me? You've thrown over your post because of me?"
"Yes; it's queer, isn't it? But I've come back to wait with you a little
while longer."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Milly was obviously not well; she coughed perpetually, and Joan sent
for the doctor. He came and sounded her chest and lungs, but found no
alarming symptoms. Mrs. Ogden protested fretfully that Joan was always
over-fussy when there was nothing to fuss about, and quite unusually
indifferent when there was real cause for anxiety. She either could not or
would not see that her younger daughter looked other than robust.
Joan had a long talk with her sister about the life at the College. They
were pretty well fed, it seemed, but of course no luxuries. Oh, yes, Milly
usually went to bed early; she felt too dead tired to want to sit up late.
She practised a good many hours a day, whenever she could, in fact; but
then that was what she was there for, and she loved that part of it.
Couldn't she slack a bit? Good Lord, no! Rather not; she wanted to make
some money, and that as soon as possible; you didn't get on by scamping
your practising. Joan mustn't fuss, it bored Milly to have her fussing like
an old hen. The cough was nothing at all, the doctor had said so. How
long had it been going on? Oh, about two months, perhaps a little longer;
but, good Lord! it was just a cough! She did wish Joan would shut up.
Elizabeth was anxious too; she felt an inexplicable apprehension
about this cough of Milly's. She was glad when the holidays came to an
end and Milly and her cough had removed themselves to London.
With her sister's departure, Joan seemed to forget her anxiety. She had
fallen into a strangely elated frame of mind and threw off troubles as
though they were thistledown.
"Mother seems very busy with her religion," she remarked one day.
Elizabeth agreed.
They fell silent, and then: "Perhaps we can go soon now, Elizabeth; I
was thinking that perhaps after Christmas——"
Elizabeth bit her lip. Something in her wanted to cry out in triumph,
but she choked it down.
"The flat's let until March," she said quietly.
"Well then, March. Oh! Elizabeth, think of it!"
Elizabeth said: "I never think of anything else—I thought you knew
that."
"But you seem so dull about it, aren't you pleased?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid!"
"Of what?"
"Of something happening to prevent it. Don't let's make plans too long
ahead."
Joan flushed. "You don't trust me any more," she said, and her voice
sounded as though she wanted to cry.
"Trust you? Of course I trust you. Joan, I don't think you know how I
feel about all this; it's too much, almost. I feel—oh, well, I can't explain,
only it's desperately serious to me."
"And what do you think it is to me?" demanded Joan passionately.
"It's more than serious to me!"
"Joan, you've known me for years now. I was your teacher when you
were quite little. I used to think you looked like a young colt then, I
remember—never mind that—only you've known me too long really to
know me; that can happen I think. I often wish I could get inside you and
know just how I look to you, what sort of woman I am as you see me,
because I don't believe it's the real me. I believe you see your old teacher,
and later on your very good and devoted friend. Well, that's all right so
far as it goes; that's part of me, but only a part. There's another big bit
that's quite different; you saw the edge of it when I left you to go to
London. It's not neat and calm and self-possessed at all, and above all it's
outrageously discontented and adventurous; it longs for all sorts of things
and hates being crossed. This part of me loves life, real life, and beautiful
things and brilliant, careless people. It feels young, absurdly so for its
age, and it demands the pleasures of youth, cries out for them. I think it
cries out all the more because it's been so long denied. This me could be
reckless of consequences, greedy of happiness and jealous of
competition. It is jealous already of you, Joan, of any interests that seem
to take your attention off me, of any affection that might rob me of even
a hair's-breadth of you. It wants to keep you all to itself, to have all your
love and gratitude, all that makes you; and it wouldn't be contented with
less. Well, my dear, this side of me and the side that you know are one
and indivisible, they're the two halves of the whole that is Elizabeth
Rodney; what do you think of her? Aren't you a little afraid after this
revelation?"
Joan laughed quietly. "No," she said, "I'm not a bit afraid. Because,
you see, I think I've known the real Elizabeth for a long time now."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE