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

<passage>:
him . do not—and he most certainly didn't. The second was the tune he whistled—a somehow familiar tune, but one which I should have thought not very appealing to a little boy. "Hi, there," I said when he came near enough. "What's that you're "'The Calm'," he said in a sober, little-boy voice. "The what held no expression, but if it had, I knew it would have matched the title of the tune he whistled. "You whistle very well," I told him. That pleased him. His eyes lit up and an almost-smile flirted with the corners of his small mouth. He nodded grave agreement. "Been after butterflies, I see. I'll bet you didn't get any. This is the wrong season." The light in his eyes snapped off. "Well, good-by," he said abruptly mechanical little boy. a curving boundary line, marking the limits of those frantic and ugly original mine-workings made many years ago by the early colonists. It pure , mind you—gold. Back in those days, to be a colonist meant to be a rugged individual. And to be a rugged individual meant to not give a damn one way or another. And to not give a damn one way or another meant to make one mother had taught him the William Tell Overture, had she? That tickling thought made me chuckle as I stood before the ramshackle building. And then, suddenly, I stopped chuckling and began to think, instead, of something quite astonishing: realization that youth has slipped quietly away downstream in the middle of the night, and left nothing but frightening rocks of middle age to show cold and gray in the hard light of dawn, was like the validation stamp of Time itself in her wide, wise eyes. And her voice wasn't young any more, either. that I was interested in. The little Martian boy, I mean." Her eyes spread as though somebody had put fingers on her lids at the "What about him?" she whispered. remarkably well. I asked him what the name of the tune was and he told me it was the 'Calm' from William Tell. He also told me his mother had taught him." been bright, moist marbles glued above her cheeks. She said one word only: "Well?" "Nothing," I answered. "Except that Martians are supposed to be to be, doesn't there?" I said it with little sharp prickers on the words. But she did, too: " whistle. And then—after what seemed to me a very long while—I slowly tumbled to what she meant. Martian father and a human, Earthwoman mother. It was a startling thought, for there just aren't any such mixed marriages. Or at least I had thought there weren't. Physically, spiritually, mentally, or by any other standard you can think of, compared to a human male the Martian isn't anything you'd want around inside her. "There isn't anything to be ashamed of," I said gently. "Back on Earth there's a lot of mixtures, you know. Some people even claim there's no such thing as a pure race. I don't know, but I guess we all started somewhere and intermarried plenty since." She nodded. Somehow her eyes didn't look defiant any more. needed help. Lord knows the careworn look about her didn't show it was fix—" But that was the wrong approach. Her eyes snapped and her shoulders stiffened angrily and the words that ripped out of her mouth were not coated with honey. "Get the hell out of here, you fool!" immediately puts it to use—on you. His chuckle was a lewd thing, a thing usually reserved—if it ever was reserved at all—for the mens' rooms of some of the lower class a gal which had got herself in a little jam, so to speak, would be more reasonable—" His words chopped short and he almost choked on the final unuttered to rifle through pictures. I didn't find the woman, but I did find the "Wanted, isn't he?" I'm not especially fussy which. Just get him!" beautifully. Which, in a sad sort of way, is a commentary on the way things have gone since the first rocket-blasting ship set down on these ever lived so long—and doubtless none after him will, either. His leathery, almost purple-black skin was rough and had a charred look moderated in tempo. It was like the throbbing—or sobbing, if you prefer—of the old, old pumps whose shafts go so tirelessly down into the planet for such pitifully thin streams of water. "I'm looking for an Earthwoman," I said. "This particular Earthwoman took a Martian for a husband." "That is impossible," he grunted bitterly. "I would have said so, too," I agreed. "Until this afternoon, that is." "I met her little son," I went on. "A little semi-human boy with Martian features. Or, if you want to turn it around and look at the other side, a little Martian boy who whistles." His teeth went together with a snap. I nodded and smiled. "You know who I'm talking about." mine and if, earlier in the day, I had thought the little boy's face was expressionless, then I didn't completely appreciate the meaning of it was simply blank. had. The point is that he knows the woman. It follows, naturally, that she might know him." "This one is wanted an intensity I didn't relish. "You said that, old man, not I." He said at last: "I do not know where the woman is. Nor the child." drawn-back, great, sucking breath. For, somewhere outside, somewhere near that dancing circle, in perfect time with the lively beat of the It was a clear, clean sound, a merry, bright, happy sound, as sharp and as precise as the thrust of a razor through a piece of soft yellow cheese. fire still flickering in her eyes. "That's a belu tree," I said. "Embracing it like that is like looking I ignored that. "Why did you pull out of that shack? I told you you had nothing to fear from me." She didn't answer. "I'm looking for the man you saw me talking with this morning," I went "What man?" Her words were flat. If that meant anything to her, I couldn't tell. In the flickering light from the fires, subtle changes in expression weren't easily detected. "Why should I care about an Earthman? My husband was a Martian. And he's dead, see? Dead. Just a Martian. Not fit for anything, like all Martians. Just a bum who fell in love with an Earthwoman and had the guts to marry her. Do you understand? So somebody murdered him for it. Ain't that pretty? Ain't that something to make you throw back your her man. And then, suddenly, it wasn't. Even though the noise of the dance and the dancers was loud enough to command the attention and the senses. I And I knew then the reason for old Wahanhk's bitterness when he had said to me, "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not to pry information out of the type of men who drifted your way—well, I mean there wasn't much sense in that, now was there?" I put an arm around her shoulders. "He must have been a pretty nice guy," I said. "I don't think you'd have married him if he wasn't." I stopped. Even in my own ears, my words sounded comfortless. I looked up, over at the flaming circle and at the sweat-laved dancers within of speed and savagery combined and those who moved to its frenetic figurines on the strings of a puppeteer gone mad. I looked down again at the woman. "Your little boy and his butterfly net," I said softly. "In a season when no butterflies can be found. after it. For us. For the three of us." I sighed. There wasn't, isn't, never will be any gold on this planet. But who in the name of God could have the heart to ruin a dream like

<question>:
How does the protagonist feel about the woman from the shack?

<options>:
A Suspicious
B Angry
C Sympathetic
D Romantic

<answer>:

C