There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter . . . he could smell the Dementor's putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him - think . . . something happy . . .
She opened the three windows, bringing in the smell of oak leaves and earth, but the fresh air could do little toward dispelling the sickening odors which had accumulated for weeks in this close room.
Letters from men at the front complained constantly of shoes that wore out in a week, gunpowder that would not ignite, harness that snapped at any strain, meat that was rotten and flour that was full of weevils.
The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat.
The ogre of endless tears and the ogre that chat without stopping Around whom the air smelled of pure rot The posse feared that the rot might pollute the rivers polluting air and water is poisoning life.
I can't remember why I read it, but if you take a bite of something putrid, and you make that horrible, disgusted face like, oh my god, I'm about to vomit everywhere.