A smell of mildew and of wet paper was in the air.

They smell of mildew and have black flecks along their edges.

And the smell -itwasn't the smell of mildew, but of roses.

There was a sickly smell of mildew and drying mud.

The night was steaming hot, and there was a smell of mildew in the air.

The air was still and quiet, yet there was an overpowering smell of mildew and decay.

The smell of mildew reaches my nose.

Though fans did their best, the smell of mildew, moldy wood, and decomposing flesh permeated the small space.

The couch looked comfortable and the dainty pillows didn't smell of mildew, the way most post-plague cushions did.

I climbed up the loading ramp and reached a doorway, greeted by the familiar smell of mildew and urine.

A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept.

They smell of mildew.

And the smell of mildew and wet, rotting paper was changing to something else-the high, junipery smell of the Bad Stuff.

I'd been clubbing in clubs like this -which made me realise how suspiciously unrotten the curtains were -despite the smell of mildew.

He was aware of several additional things now: the smell of mildew and sawdust; the pattering of small feet; the low squeaking of disturbed vermin.

The air was heavy and hot and damp, and smelled of mildew.