And out of this lull, a girl of thirteen
or fourteen, with her long hair down her back, said in a calm,
self-possessed voice:
'Gerald, you forget father, when you make that unearthly noise.'
'Do I?' he answered. And then, to the company, 'Father is lying down,
he is not quite well.'
'How is he, really?' called one of the married daughters, peeping round
the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table
shedding its artificial flowers.
'He has no pain, but he feels tired,' replied Winifred, the girl with
the hair down her back.
The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. 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.
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