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At the far end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She had Birkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would say in a low voice to Birkin: 'Who is that young man? 'I don't know, Birkin answered discreetly. 'Have I seen him before? she asked. 'I don't think so. I haven't, he replied.
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