“[…] this room, where misfortune seems to ooze, where speculation lurks in corners, and of which Madame Vauquer inhales the warm, fetid air without being nauseated.”

— 1878, Henry James, “Honoré de Balzac”, in French Poets and Novelists, London: Macmillan, II, p. 122:

“Hiro fakes toward the whorehouse, then cuts directly toward an exposed section of wall. The fabric of the building is tough, but his katana slices a six-foot rent through it with a single gliding motion, and then he's outside, spat out of the hole on a jet of fetid air.”

— 1992, Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash, page 285:

“"I'm not going to promise anything after the perfectly fetid way you're running off," she retorted.”

— 1934, Ernest Bramah, The Bravo of London: