At the top of a three-story brick building, Sue and Johnsy had their studio. One of the girls was from Maine; the other from California. They had met in an Eighth Street restaurant, and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so much in tune that the joint studio  resulted. That was in May.     In November, a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called "pneumonia", stalked  about the district, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Johnsy was among his victims.   One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a bushy, gray eyebrow.     "She has one chance in ten," he said. "And that chance is for her to want to live. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"      "She wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.  "Paint? Bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice? A man, for instance?" "No, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."     "Well," said the doctor. "I will do all that science can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriage in her funeral procession , I subtract 50 per cent from the power of medicines." After the doctor had gone, Sue cried.   Johnsy lay, scarcely making a movement under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. She was looking out and counting--counting backward.     "Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven," and then "ten," and "nine," and then "eight,' and "seven," almost together.     Sue looked out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, depressing yard to be seen, and an old, old ivy vine climbed half way up the brick wall of the brick house. The cold breath of autumn had blown away its leaves, leaving it almost bare.     "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."     "Five what, dear?"     "Leaves, on the ivy vine . When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"     "Oh, I've never heard of such nonsense. Don't be so silly. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well soon were ten to one! Try to take some soup now, and let Sue go and buy pork chops  for her sick child." What may Sue do for her friend next?
To go and buy pork chops for Johnsy. To prepare the funeral quickly. To ask Johnsy to paint the Bay of Naples. To find Johnsy a boyfriend immediately.
Question: At the top of a three-story brick building, Sue and Johnsy had their studio. One of the girls was from Maine; the other from California. They had met in an Eighth Street restaurant, and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so much in tune that the joint studio  resulted. That was in May.     In November, a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called "pneumonia", stalked  about the district, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Johnsy was among his victims.   One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a bushy, gray eyebrow.     "She has one chance in ten," he said. "And that chance is for her to want to live. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"      "She wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.  "Paint? Bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice? A man, for instance?" "No, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."     "Well," said the doctor. "I will do all that science can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriage in her funeral procession , I subtract 50 per cent from the power of medicines." After the doctor had gone, Sue cried.   Johnsy lay, scarcely making a movement under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. She was looking out and counting--counting backward.     "Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven," and then "ten," and "nine," and then "eight,' and "seven," almost together.     Sue looked out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, depressing yard to be seen, and an old, old ivy vine climbed half way up the brick wall of the brick house. The cold breath of autumn had blown away its leaves, leaving it almost bare.     "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."     "Five what, dear?"     "Leaves, on the ivy vine . When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"     "Oh, I've never heard of such nonsense. Don't be so silly. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well soon were ten to one! Try to take some soup now, and let Sue go and buy pork chops  for her sick child." What may Sue do for her friend next?
A. To go and buy pork chops for Johnsy.
B. To prepare the funeral quickly.
C. To ask Johnsy to paint the Bay of Naples.
D. To find Johnsy a boyfriend immediately.
Answer: