Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
conceited about your Flashing Eyes, because I'm sure you'll never know how to take advantage of them." When he parted from her downtown, pausing a moment to watch her walk away with feline majesty, he muttered "Flashing Eyes!" with a shrug of the shoulders and a skeptical growl. Just the same, he ducked his head as he moved off and he pulled the brim of his hat down sharply. and said, "This featherless biped seems to satisfy Galaxy Center's requirements. I'd say he's a suitable recipient for the Gifts." overly gaudy nor utterly drab—indicating median social level, and were the best of friends. "Well, how many Gifts would you suggest "How about two Little and one Big?" the Coadjutor ventured. the fate of his race hangs on his reactions to them. I'd be inclined to increase your suggestion by one each and add a Great." "No—at least I question the last. After all, the Great Gifts aren't as important, really, as the Big Gifts. Besides...." What Little Gifts would you suggest?" "That's something I want to talk about. Many of the Little Gifts are already well within his race's reach, if not his. After all, they've already got atomic power." "Which as you very well know scores them nothing one way or the other on a Galaxy Center test. We're agreed on the nature and the number of our Gifts—three Little, two Big, and one Great?" Starswarm 37, Rim Sector, Milky Way Galaxy—rubbed his chin and slanted across the street to a drugstore. "Package of blades. Double edge. Five. Cheapest." At one point during the transaction, the clerk lost sight of the tiny packet he'd placed on the coin-whitened glass between them. He gave a "There they are," he said, dropping a coin beside them. Ernie Meeker went home and shaved. Five days—and shaves—later, he packet and shuffled it into this series. unremarkable face, there was something chilly in his feelings that he couldn't quite analyze. He flipped his razor open and suspiciously studied the bright metal wafer, then flipped it closed with an irritated shrug. As he shaved, it occurred to him that a good detective-story murder method would be to substitute a very sharp razor blade for one the urrk ! Ridiculous, of course. Wouldn't work except with a straight razor. Wouldn't even work with a straight razor, unless ... oh, well. He told himself the blade was noticeably duller today. Next morning, he was still using the freak blade, but with a persistent razor blades grow dull. It was the comfortable, expected, reassuring way. He told himself the blade was duller still. Just a bit. The third morning, face lathered, he flipped open the razor and lifted it out. "You're through," he said to it silently. "I've had the experience the Wonderful One Horse Shay and leave me with a chin full of steel porcupine quills. No, thanks." So Ernie Meeker pushed through the little slot beside the mirror and heard tinkle faintly down and away the first of the Little Gifts, the Everlasting Razor Blade. One hundred and fifty thousand years later, it turned up, bright and shining, in the midst of a small knob of red iron oxide excavated by an archeological expedition of multi-brachs wonderingly, from tentacle to impatient tentacle. Size, shape, materials, blue color, closure, etc., were exactly as they should be. But the white lettering on the blue background read: AQUEOUS FUEL CATALYST After reducing the quantity several times, he gingerly dumped at most apologetic than peremptory, but he jumped, of course. as the white hours accumulated and his thoughts began to squirm, he grabbed up the detective story he'd bought at the corner newsstand. He had read thirty pages before he realized that he was turning them as rapidly as he could focus just once on each facing page. He jumped out of bed. My God, he thought, at that rate he'd finish the He selected the thickest book on the shelf, an overpoweringly dull Ernie Meeker had discovered, inside the birthday box that was himself, the first of the Big Gifts. seem like a gift at all. How would he ever keep himself in books, he wondered, if he read them so fast? And think how full to bursting his mind would get—right now, the seven pages of fine-print history were churning in it, vividly clear, along with the first chapters of the new detective story. If he kept on absorbing information that fast, he'd have to be revising all his opinions and beliefs every couple of days Ernie Meeker was not a drinking man, then. A pint had stood a week on the universe-macaroni cooked down to a thick white soup uniform as wasn't as it ideally should be in an ambitious man's mind, was at least darn comfortable. He had not rejected the Big Gift of Page-at-a-Glance Reading. Not quite. But he had dislocated for tonight at least the imposed nervous field on which it depended. sighed, squared his shoulders a little, and lifted the box out of his had seen the green flame it had burned his fingers. spoiled, but a few minutes of silence brought it back. He thought of the blur of green flashes inside the purring motor. If the passing drivers only knew! he'd ever heard of a white powder that would turn water into gasoline or some usable fuel. surprise and embarrassment. "That's one of the oldest swindles. companies got rid of him. It's just another of those malicious legends, concocted—by Russia, I imagine—to weaken your faith in American Industry, like the everlasting battery or the razor blade that never gets dull. You're looking pale, Ernie—don't tell me you've already put money in this white powder? I suppose someone's approached you with a impassioned ninety-minute defense of big business, small business, prosperity, America, money, know-how, and a number of other something about it, whether in the general line of starting a fuel-powder company or of going to the F.B.I. When he checked the blue box that night, the original sodium bicarbonate lettering had returned with all its humdrum paragraphs. Not one word about exhaust velocities. From that moment, the fuel-powder became a trial to Ernie rather than a secret glory. He'd wake in the middle of the night doubting that he had ever really read the mind-dizzying lettering, ever really tested the He couldn't decide on a safe place to keep the box and took to carrying other unsettling experiences, stemming (though of course he didn't know that) from the other Gifts—and not just the Big Gift of Page-at-a-Glance Reading, though that still returned from time to time to shock his consciousness and send him hurrying for a few quick shots. neatly furled short umbrella dangling from her wrist might better be a always has, something that sounds like poetic over-enthusiasm if you stop to analyze it, a physical impossibility, but that I have to admit you, Ernie, actually have. Flashing eyes." "Flashing eyes? Me?" She nodded solemnly. He thought her long straight lips trembled on the verge of a grin, but he couldn't be sure. "How do you mean, flashing eyes?" he protested. "How can eyes flash, except by reflecting light? In that case, I guess they'd seem to 'flash' more if a person opened them wide but kept blinking them a lot. Is that what I do?"

<question>:
What were the presents Meeker received from largest to smallest?

<options>:
A Sparkling eyes, speed reading, fuel powder, razor blade
B Powdered fuel, speed reading, sparkling eyes, everlasting toiletries
C Companionship, fuel powder, everlasting razor
D Everlasting razor, powdered fuel, speed reading, sparkling eyes

<answer>:

A