Dar and I loved to dance. It was probably the first thing we did together, long before we would share our lives. We grew up in a small Oregon mountain community where dances were held almost every Saturday night. Dar was seventeen and l was thirteen when we first danced. He was one of the best dancers on the floor, and so was I. We always jitterbugged. No slow dancing for us; nothing remotely romantic. Our fathers would stand along the wall and watch. Every once in a while, Dar's dad would smile a little and say, to no one in particular, but my dad could hear, "Boy, my kid can sure dance." _ he acted like he'd never heard. But a while later he would say, to no one in particular, "That girl of mine can sure dance." Our dancing together stopped for five years while Dar was in the South Pacific in World War II. When we met again, Dar was twenty-two, and l was eighteen. We began to date and dance again. We were as good together as we remembered, and this time we added slow dancing. For us, life is a dance, a movement of rhythms, directions, stumbles, missteps, at times slow and precise, or fast and wild and joyous. We did all the steps. Two nights before Dar died, the family were with us. We all ate dinner together, and Dar sat with us. He hadn't been able to eat for several days. After dinner, I put on a Nat King Cole tape. Dar took me in his arms, weak as he was, and we danced and smiled. No tears for us. We were doing what we had loved to do for more than fifty years. It was our last dance---forever unforgettable. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. How did the author feel when she danced with Dar for the last time?
Regretful. Content. Heart-broken. Concerned.
Question: Dar and I loved to dance. It was probably the first thing we did together, long before we would share our lives. We grew up in a small Oregon mountain community where dances were held almost every Saturday night. Dar was seventeen and l was thirteen when we first danced. He was one of the best dancers on the floor, and so was I. We always jitterbugged. No slow dancing for us; nothing remotely romantic. Our fathers would stand along the wall and watch. Every once in a while, Dar's dad would smile a little and say, to no one in particular, but my dad could hear, "Boy, my kid can sure dance." _ he acted like he'd never heard. But a while later he would say, to no one in particular, "That girl of mine can sure dance." Our dancing together stopped for five years while Dar was in the South Pacific in World War II. When we met again, Dar was twenty-two, and l was eighteen. We began to date and dance again. We were as good together as we remembered, and this time we added slow dancing. For us, life is a dance, a movement of rhythms, directions, stumbles, missteps, at times slow and precise, or fast and wild and joyous. We did all the steps. Two nights before Dar died, the family were with us. We all ate dinner together, and Dar sat with us. He hadn't been able to eat for several days. After dinner, I put on a Nat King Cole tape. Dar took me in his arms, weak as he was, and we danced and smiled. No tears for us. We were doing what we had loved to do for more than fifty years. It was our last dance---forever unforgettable. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. How did the author feel when she danced with Dar for the last time?
A. Regretful.
B. Content.
C. Heart-broken.
D. Concerned.
Answer: