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

<passage>:
thirty-five years overdue!" She was calculating the fine as he closed humidity, 47% It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was a Fownes' abstraction "What?!" huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity Conditions!" the voice wailed. "The temperature is not 59 degrees. The humidity is not 47%!" approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an "You'll have to tell me what you did first!" odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similar "You heard right. The house this ?" he asked in a somewhat patronizing tone of voice. couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBride standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably trite. with the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identical shape of the illustration. the avenue." and that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond the confines of everyday living ." mountainous puffs of glass as he went. "Mrs. Deshazaway!" he shouted. "Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!" And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode into conversation—and that's why the house shakes." "No, I don't need a vacation." Optimum temperature collapsed. "Mrs. Deshazaway! "And the right? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The old satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion. the scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated rose as the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . He rubbed his chin critically. It They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rose really smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. But then, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realistic How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly long and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amount of falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. "No" meant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and the thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. . Mrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic garden time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No. Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might be it. When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn't the first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all down and went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months, about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April. And all the rest have thirty-one. He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. "Men are too perishable," Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. "For all practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die." She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. "And don't look at me that way," she said. "I'm not going to marry you and if you want reasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse." The widow was a passionate woman. She did everything passionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionately red. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelry tinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes had never known anyone like her. "You forgot to put salt on the potatoes," she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible for her to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. "Do you have any idea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I rob my husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry their "As long as there are people," he said philosophically, "there'll be talk." "But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale, I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt, worse for him." "I don't seem to mind the air." She threw up her hands. "You'd be the worst of the lot!" She left the Five. That's what they'd say. That woman did "Don't you think they'll find out? found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't Fownes put his fork down. "Dear Mrs. Deshazaway," he started to say. me a here and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway." "But my dear Mr. Fownes," she said, leaning across the table. "We're lost, you and I." "Not if we could leave the dome," Fownes said quietly. "That's impossible! How?" leaned across the table and whispered: "Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway? or is it the other way around? No matter. How would you like that , Mrs. Deshazaway?" Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on her "Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway. supposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyond the dome." that somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight, the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal My. " Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then came outside the dome," she said, "out where a man stays warm you may call me Agnes." would be such a deliciously insane experience. ("April has thirty number such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisor with it are them. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meet eighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the books around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into near unintelligibility. "Here's one," she said to him as he entered. " Gulliver's Travels. illustration. "What's that?" he said. this . Seven years later on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book. What do you make of that ?" "I'd say," Humphrey Fownes said, "that he ... that he recommended it to her, that one day they met in the street and he told her about this book and then they ... they went to the library together and she borrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married." "Hah! They were brother and sister!" the librarian shouted in her after him: "Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991," as though reading inscriptions on a tombstone. The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaid notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?" by common consent of the governments . This is known as self-containment." "And that day I'll await impatiently," Fownes replied with marvelous tact, "because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future wife and I have to leave now ." "Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country. You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. And dialectically very poor." "Then you have

<question>:
Which doesn't describe Mrs. Deshazaway?

<options>:
A she cares about Humphrey
B she was enthusiastic and passionate
C she cares about what her neighbors think
D she doesn't believe in love

<answer>:

D