“He smelt cake.”
“He smelt of English sweat and English beer, and it was a good cure for dead faces.”
“What did I do?" he said. "Cake! It's cake! Delicious cake!”
“Night smelt the way Havoc’s songs sounded. It smelt of steel and rushlights and the marsh welcoming a misstep and anger souring like old blood.”
“He smelt of the sun, as if it had seeped deep into his skin, and I found myself inhaling silently, as if he were something delicious.”
“All in a moment Hurlow forgot the beauty of the sounds and smelt fear. He smelt it as an animal smells it, the breath cold in his nostrils. He had read about Pan, a dead god who might safely be patronized while poring over a book in a London lodging, but here and at this hour a god not to be scorned. ("Furze Hollow")”