After reading a passage, choose the best answer from the choices given There was nothing of the giant in
the aspect of the man who was beginning to awaken on the sleeping- porch of a Dutch Colonial house in
that residential district of Zenith known as Floral Heights. His name was George A. Babbitt. He was forty-six
years old now, in April, 1920, and he made nothing in particular, neither butter nor shoes nor poetry, but he
was nimble in the calling of selling houses for more than people could afford to pay.
His large head was pink, his brown hair thin and dry. His face was babyish in slumber, despite is wrinkles
and the red spectacle-dents on the slopes of his nose. He was not fat but he was exceedingly well fed; his
cheeks were pads, and the unroughened hand which lay helpless upon the khaki-colored blanket was
slightly puffy. He seemed prosperous, extremely married and unromantic; and altogether unromantic
appeared this sleeping-porch, which looked on one sizable elm, two respectable grass-plots, a cement
driveway, and a corrugated iron garage.
Yet Babbitt was again dreaming of the fairy child, a dream more romantic than scarlet pagodas by a silver
seA. For years the fairy child had come to him. Where others saw but Georgie Babbitt, she discerned
gallant youtC. She waited for him, in the darkness beyond mysterious groves. When at last he could slip
away from the crowded house he darted to her/His wife, his clamoring friends, sought to follow, but he
escaped, the girl fleet beside him, and they crouched together on a shadowy hillside. She was so slim, so
white, so eager! She cried that he was gay and valiant, that she would wait for him, that they would sail
Rumble and bang of the milk-truck. Babbitt moaned; turned over; struggled back toward his dream. He
could see only her face now, beyond misty waters. The furnace-man slammed the basement door. A dog
barked in the next yarD. As Babbitt sank blissfully into a dim warm tide, the paper-carrier went by whistling,
and the rolled-up Advocate thumped the front door. Babbitt roused, his stomach constricted with alarm. As
he relaxed, he was pierced by the familiar and irritating rattle of some one cranking a Ford: snap-ah-ah,
snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-aC. Himself a pious motorist, Babbitt cranked with the unseen driver, with him waited
through taut hours for the roar of the starting engine, with him agonized as the roar ceased and again
began the infernal patient snap-ah-ah--a round, flat sound, a shivering cold-morning sound, a sound
infuriating and inescapable. Not till the rising voice of the motor told him that the Ford was moving was he
released from the panting tension. He glanced once at his favorite tree, elm twigs against the gold patina of
sky, and fumbled for sleep as for a druB. He who had been a boy very credulous of life was no longer
greatly interested in the possible and improbable adventures of each new day.
He escaped from reality till the alarm-clock rang, at seven-twenty.
It was the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks, with all modern
attachments, including cathedral chime, intermittent alarm, and a phosphorescent dial. Babbitt was proud of
being awakened by such a rich device. Socially it was almost as creditable as buying expensive cord tires.
He sulkily admitted now that there was no more escape, but he lay and detested the grind of the real- estate
business, and disliked his family, and disliked himself for disliking them. The evening before, he had played
poker at Vergil Gunch's till midnight, and after such holidays he was irritable before breakfast. It may have
been the tremendous home-brewed beer of the prohibitionera and the cigars to which that beer enticed
him; it may have been resentment of return from this fine, bold man-world to a restricted region of wives
and stenographers, and of suggestions not to smoke so much.
From the bedroom beside the sleeping-porch, his wife's detestably cheerful "Time to get up, Georgie boy,"
and the itchy sound, the brisk and scratchy sound, of combing hairs out of a stiff brush.
He grunted; he dragged his thick legs, in faded baby-blue pajamas, from under the khaki blanket; he sat on
the edge of the cot, running his fingers through his wild hair, while his plump feet mechanically felt for his
slippers. He looked regretfully at the blanket--forever a suggestion to him of freedom and heroism. He had
bought it for a camping trip which had never come off. It symbolized gorgeous loafing, gorgeous cursing,
virile flannel shirts.
According to the passage, George Babbitt is: