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

<passage>:
Linton lay down his steel fork beside the massively solid transparency of the restaurant water glass. "Isn't that Rogers Snead at that table?" he heard himself say stupidly. Howell, the man across the table from him, looked embarrassed without looking. "Not at all. Somebody who looks like him. Twin brother. You know how it is. Snead's dead, don't you remember?" Linton remembered. Howell had to know that he would remember. What were they trying to pull on him? "The man who isn't Snead is leaving," Linton said, describing the scene over Howell's shoulder. "If that's Snead's brother, I might catch him to pay my respects." "No," Howell said, "I wouldn't do that." "Snead came to Greta's funeral. It's the least I could do." "I wouldn't. Probably no relation to Snead at all. Somebody who looks like him." "He's practically running," Linton said. "He almost ran out of the restaurant." "Who? Oh, the man who looked like Snead, you mean." "Yes," Linton said. A thick-bodied man at the next table leaned his groaning chair back intimately against Linton's own chair. thick man said. "Couldn't have been him, though," Linton answered automatically. "My friend's dead." The thick man rocked forward and came down on all six feet. He threw out of the place quickly. Howell breathed in deeply and sucked back Linton's attention. "Now you've probably got old Snead into trouble." "Snead's dead," Linton said. "Oh, well, 'dead,'" Howell replied. "What do you say it like that for?" Linton demanded angrily. "The man's dead. Plain dead. He's not Sherlock Holmes or the Frankenstein Monster—there's no doubt or semantic leeway to the thing." "You know how it is," Howell said. Linton had thought he had known how death was. He had buried his wife, the sawdust-fresh pine box that held the coffin. He had known what he sincerely felt to be a genuine affection for Greta. Even after they had let him out of the asylum as cured, he still secretly believed he had known a genuine affection for her. But it didn't seem he knew about Linton felt that his silence was asking Howell by this time. "I don't know, mind you," Howell said, puffing out tobacco smoke, "but I suppose he might have been resurrected." "Who by?" Linton asked, thinking: God? "The Mafia, I guess. Who knows who runs it?" "You mean, somebody has invented a way to bring dead people back to life?" Linton said. He knew, of course, that Howell did not mean that. Howell meant that patently ridiculous, Linton hoped to bring the contradicting truth to "Sh-h," Howell said uneasily. "This is a public place." "I don't understand," Linton said helplessly. "Look, Frank, you can't legalize a thing like resurrection," Howell Overpopulation. Birth control is a touchy subject. They'd have to take it up if everybody got resurrected when they died, wouldn't they?" "But what do they do about it? Against it?" "There are a lot of fakes and quacks in the resurrection business. When Time the other day that said 'death' was our dirty word, not sex. You want to shock somebody, you tell him, 'You're going to be dead someday,' not anything sexual. You know how it is. The opposite of 'live' these days is 'video-taped.'" "I see," Linton said. Linton's fingers imprinted the linen. "Damn you, Howell, you tell me!" the thick-set man and stalked out. I've got to hurry too, Linton thought. It's Resurrection Day! The doctor fluttered his hands and chirped about the office. "Well, attempted to bribe an officer. That's disturbing, Mr. Linton, very Linton stared suspiciously. "Do you know where I can find a resurrectionist?" "I am a resurrectionist." "But the policeman brought me to you!" "Well, that's what you paid him to do, wasn't it? Did you think a "Doctor, can you really resurrect the dead?" "Will you stop being cynical? Of course I can!" "Doctor, I'm beginning to believe in you," Linton said, "but tell me, can you resurrect the long dead?" "Size has nothing to do with it." "No, my wife has been dead a long time. Months." Linton grasped the situation immediately. "You mean you want money. You would have been secure for the rest of my lonely, miserable life." "All that's ended now," the doctor assured him. "Now we must go dig up the corpse. The female corpse, eh?" Resurrection Day! "Doctor," Linton whispered, "my mind is singing with battalions of choirs. I hope that doesn't sound irreverent to you." The doctor stroked his oily palms together. "Oh, but it does. Beautifully." The certificate to allow reburial in Virginia hadn't been impossible to obtain. The doctor had taken the body and Linton's fortune and fed them both into the maw of his calculators, and by means of the secret, doubt he would be able to adjust to her once having been dead the same way he had learned to accept the, to him, distasteful duty of kissing course it would be it hadn't changed even in the grave. He remembered the snaky tendrils of it growing out of the water-logged casket. Her fine black brows made Gothic arches. "Yes? What about Johnny?" "It was a terrible accident right after—that is, about five months ago. He was killed." "Killed?" Greta repeated blankly. "Johnny Gorman was killed?" "Traffic accident. Killed instantly." "But Johnny was your friend, your best friend. Why didn't you have him resurrected the same way you did me?" "Darling, resurrection is a risky business and an expensive one. You have to pay premium prices for strawberries in February. I no longer have the money to pay for a resurrection of Johnny." Greta turned her back to him. "It's just as well. You shouldn't bring back Johnny to this dream of life, give him a ghost of mind and the But you're sure hilt. It won't pay any more until I'm buried, and then, of course, you can resurrect me." "Of course," Greta said. She sighed. "Poor Johnny. He was such a good friend of yours. You must miss him. I'm so sorry for you." to quench death and smother decay. It's perfect ." Linton understood immediately. He felt foolish, humiliated. All that wreckage. Yes, it seemed they had to automate and modify the bodies somewhat in resurrection. They couldn't chemically revive the old corpse like pouring water on a wilted geranium. Or— Did they use the old bodies at all? What were all those acid baths for if the bodies were used? Didn't the resurrectionists just destroy the old corpses and make androids, synthetic creatures, to take their place? But it didn't matter. Not a bit. She had thought she was his wife, sharing her viewpoint down to the It was what you thought was real that made it so, not the other way around. "I've killed my wife!" Linton called, rising from his knees, stretching doctor looked down at him consolingly. "You'll have to go back, Mr. Linton. But they'll cure you. You'll be cured of ever thinking your wife was brought back to life and that you killed her all over again." "Do you really

<question>:
What is the most likely identity of the man Linton believes to be Mr. Snead?

<options>:
A Snead's twin brother
B A complete stranger
C Snead (who never died)
D A resurrected Snead

<answer>:

D