Crambe repetita (4)
There was an odd smell in the passage, as if the concentrated essence of all the dinners that had been cooked in the kitchen since the house was built, lingered at the top of the kitchen stairs to that hour, and, like the Black Friar in Don Juan, ‘wouldn’t be driven away.’ In particular, there was a sensation of cabbage; as if all the green that had ever been boiled there, were evergreens, and flourished in immortal strength.
—Charles Dickens,
Martin Chuzzlewit,
(2003.132, p. 124)
