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A young girl of about fifteen, who had never left her father's house, was walking one day with her mother and a sophisticated abbe, down an avenue of horse-chestnut trees whose flowers filled the air with the scent which we have just taken liberty to describe.
"Oh, good gracious, mother, what an odd smell," said the young girl, not realising where it was coming from.... "what is it, it's a smell I know."
"Be quiet, madmoiselle, don't make remarks of that kind, I beg you."
"But why not, mother, I don't see what's wrong in telling you that I've smelt it before, and I definately have."
"But , mademoiselle...."
"But, mother, I recognise it, I really do; Monsieur Abbe, tell me, I beg of you, what's wrong in my saying to my mother that I recognise that smell?"
"Mademoiselle," said the Abbe, adjusting his jabot and speaking in a piping voice, "there's nothing very wrong in the fact itself; but we are walking beneath horse-chestnut trees and we botanists admit that horse-chestnut flowers....."
"Well, horse-chestnut flowers.......?"
"Well, mademoiselle..... they smell of spunk."