Explore "The Indian Chief" by Gustave Aimard on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Dona Angela had just awakened: a sportive sunbeam, passing indiscreetly over her charming face, had made her open her eyes. She was lying half extended in her hammock, with her head supported on her right arm, and was pensively looking at the swan's-down slipper which she was idly balancing on her dainty little foot. Violanta, seated at her foot on a stool, was busily arranging the various articles of her mistress's toilette. At length Dona Angela shook off her careless languor, and a smile played on her coral lips.
"Today," she said, as she raised her head coquettishly.