What had our young women done with their proud eyes? Nowadays they looked
on mediocrity as willingly as on superiority. They lost themselves in
admiration over rather every-day poetry, over common fiction. Some time
ago greater and prouder things were needed to conquer them. There was a
page here and there in Norway's history to prove that. Our young women had
modified their demands considerably; they couldn't help it; their pride
was gone, their strength sapped. The young woman had lost her power, her
glorious and priceless simplicity, her unbridled passion, her brand of
breed. She had lost her pride in the only man, her hero, her god. She had
acquired a sweet tooth. She sniffed at everything and gave everybody the
willing glance. Love to her was simply the name for an extinct feeling;
she had read about it and at times she had been entertained by it, but it
had never sweetly overpowered her and forced her to her knees; it had
simply fluttered past her like an outworn sound. "But the young woman of
our day does not pretend to all this; alas, no! She is honestly shorn.
There is nothing to do about it; the only thing is to keep the loss within
limits.
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