It was one of those mid-Victorian jobs in glazed red brick which always seem to bob up in these olde-world hamlets and do so much to encourage the drift to the towns. Its interior, like those of all the joints of its kind I've ever some across, was dingy and fuggy and smelled in about equal proportions of apples, chalk, damp plaster, Boy Scouts and the sturdy English peasantry.
(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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