Paul Gauguin Mahana No Atua

foolishly at her. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘You’re doing what you’ve always wanted to do.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I didn’t even know about moving pictures a couple of months ago. There weren’t any.’
They strolled aimlessly towards the town.
‘What did you want to be?’ he ventured.
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t know. I just knew I didn’t want to be a milkmaid.’
There had where I come from.’
‘Why?’ said Victor.
‘I suppose it saves having to worry about what to do on Saturday nights.’
‘Oh.’
‘Didn’t you want to be anything?’ said Ginger, putting a whole sentence-worth of disdain in a been milkmaids at home. Victor tried to recollect anything about them. ‘It always looked quite an interesting job to me, milkmaiding,’ he said vaguely. ‘Buttercups, you know. And fresh air.’ ‘It’s cold and wet and just as you’ve finished the bloody cow kicks the bucket over. Don’t tell me about milking. Or being a shepherdess. Or a goosegirl. I really hated our farm.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘And they expected me to marry my cousin when I was fifteen.’ ‘Is that allowed?’ ‘Oh, yes. Everyone marries their cousins