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The Catholic Faith, which ignores no single possibility in human feeling and no possible flight in human idealism, produces in those who hold it truly a freshness of heart very hard to be understood by the dispassionate critic who weighs character by the newest laws of his favourite degenerate, but never by the primeval tests of God.
Unfortunately, Lord Palmerston, in spite of such statements, was too much inclined to throw the moral weight of England into this or that scale on his own responsibility, and, as it often seemed to dispassionate observers, on the mere caprice of the hour.
That her own heart ached miserably did not prevent her from observing things with all her usual keenness. Ah, Nora, Nora, who have everything to give and yet give nothing, why do you play so heartless a game? Why hurt those who can no more help loving you than the earth can help whirling around the calm dispassionate sun?
For an instant he was blind with pain, but afterwards he steadied, grew deadly cool and clear-headed. There was a constant movement in the corridor and he turned abruptly, almost with authority, into an empty operating theatre. Instinctively he had chosen his ground. Here was symbolized everything that he trusted and believed in a cool, dispassionate seeking, the ruthless cutting out of waste.
It is possible, on the other hand, that Thirlwall may have sacrificed a little too much, considering his age and its demands, to mere dispassionate dignity. He is seldom picturesque, and indeed he never tries to be so.
He pushed the hair back from his forehead, answering in a manner grown abruptly calm and dispassionate.
A moment's reflection will convince every dispassionate mind of the physical impossibility of carrying either proposal into execution.
The time has not yet arrived for a calm and dispassionate review of the acts and actors of that period and the events of the immediately succeeding years; but the incidents that took place and the experience so dearly purchased should not be perverted, misunderstood, or wholly forgotten.
"A crank," he said slowly, "is a man like me." He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann's dispassionate examining eyes. "Is Uncle Eustace a crank?" "You know now, Mr. Courtier, what Ann thinks of you. You think a good deal of Uncle Eustace, don't you, Ann?" "Yes," said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her. But Courtier gazed sideways over her hatless head.
It is a problem that calls for our soberest, most dispassionate, and most patriotic thought.
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