Word: tepid
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...naval air zealots' way of thinking, the only choice for the Navy's top air job is a top-flight airman. Anything else is just "stooging," which is flyers' slang for pooping around. That was the reason joy was only tepid. The man picked to fill McCain's shoes was another naval officer belatedly made into an airman: genial, 60-year-old Vice Admiral Aubrey Wray Fitch...
...viscera." But the Count was still in love with Solange (he had left her in France). He had only "a sentimental veneration for [Veronica's] vacant, meningitic stare," though he liked to surprise her "by refined flashes of turpitude." Soon, "life became like a bath in a tepid lake." "If one day I decided to kill myself," mused the Count. "I should choose the moment immediately after the radio had announced the despairing and inexorable phrase, 'Bulova Watch Time...
...pass the time. Once a day the Bishop was escorted to a corridor washbasin - cold water and no soap. One morning a woman prisoner smilingly offered him a piece of soap. The gesture restored his waning faith in human nature. Coarse rice, a piece of pickle, vegetable soup and tepid water were the daily fare, but Bishop Heaslett had the privilege of having food sent in from a nearby restaurant. He shared this with his cellmates, noting that there was "neither coarseness nor apparent greed among them...
Gloom & Quibbles. This tepid resolve was miles behind the temper of the British people. It came little nearer to satisfying the House, including a sizable number of Churchill Conservatives. Forty Tories, led by handsome Viscount Hinchingbrooke M.P., demanded that a Ministry of Social Security be established at once. Liberal insurgents headed by gaunt, good Wilfrid Roberts similarly wanted a new ministry and "earliest possible legislation." Angry Laborites denounced the Government's policy, urged "reconsideration of that policy with a view to the early implementation of the Plan...
Death pervades each of Virginia Woolf's best books. In Jacob's Room a dead young man's life fades in other people's memories like a match streak on a tepid stove lid. In Mrs. Dalloway an image of all London shines and synchronizes beneath the reverberations of London's belling clocks. In To The Lighthouse, which Critic Daiches calls "the perfection of Virginia Woolf's art," the rhythms of time and death and change suffuse and subtilize a half-mystic seascape, a long-delayed excursion, an equally delayed resolving of family discord...