Except for a few pigeons, Central Park was deserted. Mist hung above the chilled grass. Patches of old
snow, scattered here and there, looked like white puddles. The sun hung just above the horizon, casting red
and orange streaks across low-hanging clouds. The portly, gray-haired gentleman jogging down the path
looked out of place. For one thing, he was dressed in ordinary street clothes, not a sweat suit. Also, every
few seconds, he looked anxiously back over his shoulder. Coming closer to me, I saw that his face was
flushed. He was panting, almost gasping. Abruptly, looking this way and that, he moved behind a tree.
Seeming not to notice my presence, he stood with his back against the trunk, panting heavily. After a
moment, he poked his head out to survey the path. It was still empty, except for a squirrel that dashed
across the path like a furry dart. I checked my watch. It was now 7:30. Mentally marking the time, I aimed
my camera toward the man's face.
From this paragraph, what relationship can you infer between the jogger and the writer?
1 answer
1 answer