I liked this image of guilt as a waft of stale and strong-smelling smoke that can’t be dispelled with a wave of the hand.

‘… but guilt hung about him like stale cigar smoke…’

Source: Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968 (1945)), p. 146

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