Such barefaced curiosity is revolting; I hate it.

Yes, 35 (21 years) passed away last night, and so did 415 (Mrs.
Meintjes), whom I visited late last evening.

This morning the black list was laid on my table; twelve[17] in the
night--339, 415, 125, 253, 180, 526, 419, 35, 353, 450, I didn't
expect 415 to live long.

The night has been a most restless one; "Ja, minheer, ons het
vannacht nie rust gehad nie" ("Yes, sir, we had no rest last night")
(morgue tents men).

I woke at 2 a.m. with the tramp of these bearers removing
corpses[18].

One longs for day, and the night seems never to end.

Twice funerals--morning at 11 a.m. (six), "Leer ons alzoo onze dagen
tellen" ("So teach us to number our days"); afternoon, 4 p.m. (six),
"En de dooden werden geoordeeld uit hetgeen in de boeken geschreven
was, naar hunne werken" ("And the dead were judged out of those
things which were written in the books, according to their works").

Our wood has given in, and we are forced to bury in blankets. But let
me not think on it! It is painful to remember, and our people feel
very deeply.

The Van der Walts managed to put together an apology for a coffin,
and there was something pathetically comic about that production. I