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

<passage>:
Ronnie's heart. He stood alone in his upstairs bedroom. His slender-boned, eight-year-old body trembling, perspiration glittering on his white forehead. To Ronnie, the clock seemed to be saying: seeping into the bedroom. Ronnie welcomed the fall of darkness. He A burst of hope entered Ronnie's fear-filled eyes. Maybe something Ronnie shivered, his pulse quickening. The muscles in his small body Ronnie huddled in the darkness by the half-open bedroom door. , his mind cried, please don't tell Daddy what I did. There was a droning, indistinct murmur. Dad burst, "He was doing what ?" Ronnie silently closed the bedroom door. "Ronnie!" Dad called. Ronnie held his breath. His legs seemed as numb and nerveless as the Ronnie! Come down here! Like an automaton, Ronnie shuffled out of his bedroom. He stepped Gogh, Cezanne, Dali. The faces seemed to be mocking him. Ronnie felt "Is it true, Ronnie?" asked Dad. "Were you really—really reading a Ronnie gulped. He nodded. held Ronnie's arms and looked hard into his eyes. For an instant he became the kind, understanding father that Ronnie knew. "Tell me all about it, son. Where did you get the book? Who taught you to read?" Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was—Daddy, you won't make trouble, will you?" "This is between you and me, son. We don't care about anyone else." "Well, it was Kenny Davis. He—" Dad's fingers tightened on Ronnie's arms. "Kenny Davis!" he spat. "The boy's no good. His father never had a job in his life. Nobody'd even offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!" Dad grunted. "All right, son. Go ahead." "Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost five hundred books." Ronnie's voice quavered. "Go on," said Dad sternly. "And I—and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school—oh, Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the video or hear on the tapes." "Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two years—" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault. Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at Ronnie. His soft-spoken "Come here, son." Ronnie followed and sat on the hassock by Dad's feet. "Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a "B—but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked. Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read them, don't they?" "Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might want you to learn to read. But for young people and children—well, it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn till he was nearly fifty!" Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go well, I should be handling giving orders instead of carrying them. Then I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it." Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or—" hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that "Ronnie!" Dad's voice was knife-sharp and December-cold. Ronnie slipped off the sprawled on his small posterior, fresh fear etched on his thin features. "Damn it, son, how could you even think of being a Reader? You've got at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I had a Reader for a son?" "B—but, Daddy—" this boy in a reformatory. Maybe a good memory-wash will take some of the nonsense out of him!" Ronnie suppressed a sob. "No, Daddy, don't let them take away my brain. Please—" Dad stood very tall and very stiff, not even looking at him. "They won't take your brain, just your memory for the past two years." this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric treatments. They can do wonderful things now—permi-hypnosis, creations of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to school all over again." Dad returned to his chair. He buried his face in trembling hands, and know what to do." He looked up abruptly, as if struck by a chilling new thought. "You can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that "There's only one solution. We can't destroy two years of Ronnie's Dad interrupted: "But he'd still remember how to read, unconsciously anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life." was he reading?" A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on "I don't know. Ronnie seemed to like them so much. I thought that maybe "Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the "You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative years, in a pleasant house, these things symbolize peace and security. Ronnie's been conditioned from the very time of his birth to like old things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were just too stupid to realize it." you see what this means? Ronnie'll have to be memory-washed back to the time of birth. He'll have to start life all over again." "No, David, no!" "And in my position I can't afford to have an eight-year-old son with no other way. The boy can start life over in a reformatory, with a complete memory-wash. He'll never know we existed, and he'll never bother us again." new concept. He seized one of the books on the hassock. "Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the " you can read "I'm sorry, David. I've never told anyone—not even Ronnie. I haven't read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've "A good wife." Dad sneered. His face was so ugly that Ronnie looked away. Mom continued, "I—I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like Ronnie. You know how young people are—reckless, eager to do forbidden things." tonight Ronnie saw no fear in her eyes. Ronnie, to Mom, to the clock, back and forth. "Where will we go, Ronnie? Where, where—" Ronnie led her through the cold, windy streets. They left the lights of Ronnie and Mom stepped inside.

<question>:
How had Ronnie learned to read?

<options>:
A At school from his teacher
B From his friends' father
C From his mother
D He taught himself

<answer>:

B