Out in the street at last, the man stopped running and looked back at the steps of the gal

lery. The woman was not following him. All the same, he went across to where the car was parked. But as there was still no sign of her he didn't drive away. His wife would be along shortly—she was only picking up odds and ends for the kids at some shop around the corner where there was a closing-down sale. What a fool he was to have gone into the cursed gallery. Just because he had found a parking place opposite it! If he'd bought an evening paper and waited for Annie in the car he'd have saved himself a nasty fright, because now he felt certain that the crazy woman could not have been Eterna. Not in those outlandish clothes! Not with that daft look in her eyes as she strayed from painting to painting, causing everyone to stare.

If it was Eterna, wouldn't he have noticed her the minute he went into the place, instead of merely turning to see why other people were staring？ Even then, he wouldn't have given the poor soul a second glance if he hadn't fancied a resemblance. But when he found her eyes fixed on him he lost his head and ran, although he was vaguely aware, even then, that her daft gaze had already wandered away from him. That was another thing. If it was Eterna, wouldn't she have recognized him？

It was mortifying to think that he had lost control to such an extent that he ran. Supposing one of his patients had been there and seen him. It was unlikely, though, that anyone up from the country for a precious half day in Dublin would waste time in the National Gallery. He relaxed. He lit a cigarette and settled down to wait for Annie.

Why had he gone into the gallery at all？ He had probably fallen into a nostalgic mood, thinking of all the exhibitions he'd attended there before he was qualified and when he still entertained notions of a practice in Dublin. In those days, going to art exhibitions, symphony concerts, operas, and that sort of thing seemed as important for his advancement as going to his lectures. Ah, well, he'd better not tell Annie about his little adventure. Not that she'd give a damn whether it was Eterna or not—she'd be concerned only at his having gone into the gallery at all, at his backsliding into intellectual snobbery, or what she called professional posturing— "Tommyrot" was the word she had actually used the first time he met her, or rather the first time they had what could be considered a real conversation.

What do we know about the man's work and place of work？

A．He was a doctor working in a city.

B．He was a doctor working in the country.

C．He was an artist working in Dublin.

D．He was an artist working outside Dublin.