The village hall stood in the middle of the High Street, just abaft the duck-pond. Erected in the year 1881 by Sir Quentin Deverill, Bart, a man who didn't know much about architecture but knew what he liked, it was one of those mid-Victorian jobs in glazed red brick which always seem to bob up in these olde-worlde 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 comer across, was dingy and fuggy and smelled in about equal proportions of apples, chalk, damp plaster, Boy Scouts, and the sturdy English peasantry.
- P.G. Wodehouse, The Mating Season, p.205
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