1936, H. P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness.And now, when Danforth and I saw the freshly glistening and reflectively iridescent black slime which clung thickly to those headless bodies and stank obscenely with that new, unknown odor whose cause only a diseased fancy could envisage—clung to those bodies and sparkled less voluminously on a smooth part of the accursedly resculptured wall in a series of grouped dots—we understood the quality of cosmic fear to its uttermost depths
(degree, somewhat dated) Damnably; extremely.The Pathan is so accursedly wily.
