Also she had her beloved John, at
whom she would sit and gaze by the hour like a cat sometimes does at a
person to whom it is attached. Indeed, when she spoke to him, her
voice seemed to me to resemble a kind of blissful purr. I think it
made the old boy rather fidgety sometimes, for after an hour or two of
it he would rise and go to hunt for butterflies.
To tell the truth, the situation got a little on my nerves at last,
for wherever I looked I seemed to see there Stephen and Hope making
love to each other, or Brother John and his wife admiring each other,
which didn't leave me much spare conversation. Evidently they thought
that Mavovo, Hans, Sammy, Bausi, Babemba and Co. were enough for me--
that is, if they reflected on the matter at all. So they were, in a
sense, for the Zulu hunters began to get out of hand in the midst of
this idleness and plenty, eating too much, drinking too much native
beer, smoking too much of the intoxicating /dakka/, a mischievous kind
of help, and making too much love to the Mazitu women, which of course
resulted in the usual rows that I had to settle.
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