The door creaked and a rectangle of light fell onto the magazine that I was reading. I looked up to a boy who had come into the lobby was a stranger, about nineteen, tall and thin.
"Looking for someone?" I asked.
"No," the boy said. His long fingers trembled as they fumbled with the buttons of his coat.
"Well, may I help you with something?"
"No." The boy dropped his coat onto the worn tweed sofa and sat down slowly. In the light from the window his pale cheeks gleamed as if wet.
He's sick, I thought, while walking over to him. A narrow hand reached out and seized my wrist, cold, strong fingers twining around my arm like vines or snakes. I try to fight the impulse to pull away, looking down instead into the boy's troubled, grey eyes.
B adjective phrase is the correct answer
