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

<passage>:
the shoulders and a skeptical growl. Just the same, he ducked his head requirements. I'd say he's a suitable recipient for the Gifts." overly gaudy nor utterly drab—indicating median social level, I'd be out of a job." "And have to scheme up some other excuse for free-touring the Cosmos and were the best of friends. "Well, how many Gifts would you suggest "No—at least I question the last. After all, the Great Gifts aren't as bluff, blunt type. "Well," said his less hearty but unswervingly honest companion, "I'm always afraid that you'll use the granting of a Great Gift as an excuse for some sardonic trick—that you'll put a sting in its tail." What Little Gifts would you suggest?" "That's something I want to talk about. Many of the Little Gifts are our Gifts—three Little, two Big, and one Great?" packet he'd placed on the coin-whitened glass between them. He gave a suspicious look, as if the customer had palmed them. "There they are," he said, dropping a coin beside them. Ernie Meeker went home and shaved. Five days—and shaves—later, he Or maybe—although the manufacturers undoubtedly had inspectors to prevent it from happening—he'd got a decent blade for once. unremarkable face, there was something chilly in his feelings that he irritated shrug. As he shaved, it occurred to him that a good detective-story murder He told himself the blade was noticeably duller today. them to, in accordance with their flimsy souls, he told himself at the barely conscious level. Men should die, hearts should break, girls should tell, nations perish, curtains get dirty, milk sour ... and He told himself the blade was duller still. Just a bit. before of getting bum shaves by trying to save a penny by pretending to myself that a wornout blade was still sharp enough, when it obviously couldn't be. Or maybe—" he grinned a little wryly—"maybe I'd almost 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 wonderingly, from tentacle to impatient tentacle. After reducing the quantity several times, he gingerly dumped at most He cautiously explored the boundaries of the heat. It became noticeable The knock hadn't been loud and his widowed sister's voice was more 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 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. The trouble was that in that wee-hour, lonely bedroom, it didn't 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 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 at least—maybe every couple of hours. It seemed a dreadful, literally maddening prospect—his mind would he was staring at, which imitated the grain of wood, had in an instant be able to? It was an abnormal, dangerous, temporary sensitivity, he told himself, generated by the excitement of the crazy discovery he'd made in the bathroom. Like the thoughts of a drowning man, riffling an infinity-paneled adventure-comic of his life as he bolts his last rough Ernie Meeker was not a drinking man, then. A pint had stood a week on 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. until payday to gas up. Now he had used the tube to siphon out what he could of the remainder (he still could taste the stuff!) and he'd sighed, squared his shoulders a little, and lifted the box out of his Making to check the directions the umpteenth time, he received a body Right there died his tentative plan of eventually sharing his secret with some friend who knew more than himself about motors (he hadn't decided anyway who that would be). It would be just too silly to this all was, how jarringly implausible even on such hypotheses as practical jokes, secret product perhaps military, or mad inventor (except himself). At that point, simple faith came to Ernie's rescue: in the same bathroom, he turned the key in the starter—it forced him to be calm and collected, though he didn't feel exactly right about exposing her to the danger "No," he said without thinking then, realizing his mistake, quickly added, "I'll buy some in Wheaton. There's enough to get us there." "No, I'll wait for Wheaton—I know a place there I can get it cheaper," he insisted, rather lamely, he feared. shoulders and concentrated on driving. His feeling of excitement was spoiled, but a few minutes of silence brought it back. He thought of surprise and embarrassment. "That's one of the oldest swindles. They always tell this story about how this man had a white powder or something and demonstrated it once with a pail of water and then disappeared. You're supposed to believe that Detroit or the big oil companies got rid of him. It's just another of those malicious legends, concocted—by Russia, I imagine—to weaken your faith in American money in this white powder? I suppose someone's approached you with a proposition, though?" With considerable difficulty, Ernie convinced his uncle that he had "just heard the story from a friend." prosperity, America, money, know-how, and a number of other institutions that defended pretty easily, so that the situation was To tell the truth, Ernie wasn't feeling as elated about today's his finger on the reason: It was the completely ... well, arbitrary way in which the white powder had come into his possession. If he'd concocted it himself, or been given it by a shady promoter, or he'd have felt more able to do something about it, whether in the general line of starting a fuel-powder company or of going to the F.B.I. But just having the stuff drop into his hands from the sky, so to 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 He couldn't decide on a safe place to keep the box and took to carrying office and by an unhappy coincidence needed some bicarb just then for a troubled stomach. Ernie explained on the spur of the moment that he was using the box to carry plaster of Paris, which involved him in further lies that he felt were quite unconvincing as well as making him appear Meanwhile, besides the problem of the white powder, Ernie was having 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 Like many another car-owning commuter, Ernie found the traffic and parking problems a bit too much for comfort and so used the fast whipping past, enjoyed a kind of anonymity and privacy more refreshing to his spirit than he realized. But now all that had been suddenly than he did. "Don't you know?" she countered. "I mean what makes you attractive to people?" "Me attractive? No." the verge of a grin, but he couldn't be sure.

<question>:
What did Meeker think of the presents he was receiving?

<options>:
A He was beginning to question his sanity
B He was afraid and rejected all of the presents
C He felt he had a secret admirer
D He felt it was an opportunity to become rich

<answer>:

A