The Doomswoman by Gertrude Atherton

I went upstairs and found Chonita reading Landor's "Imaginary Conversations. " (When Chonita was eighteen, -- she was now twenty-four -- Don Alfredo Robinson, one of the American residents, had at her father's request sent to Boston for a library of several hundred books, a birthday gift for the ambitious daughter of the Iturbi y Moncadas. The selection was an admirable one, and a rancho would not have pleased her as well. She read English and French with ease, although she spoke both languages brokenly.) As I entered she laid down the book and clasped her hands behind her head. She looked tranquil, but less amiable than was her wont.

"Thou hast been far away from the caballeros and the donas of Monterey," I said.