It spelled home to her, and the vindication of her beloved dad, of whom she dared not think sometimes, it hurt her so.
Her book was not progressing as fast as she had expected when she began it.

She had been working at it sporadically now for eight weeks, and she had only ten chapters done,--and some of these were terribly short.
She had looked through all of the novels that she owned, and had computed the average number of chapters in each; thirty she decided would be a good, conservative number to write.

She had even divided those thirty into three parts, and had impartially allotted ten to adventure, ten to mystery and horror, and ten to love-making.

Such an arrangement should please everybody, surely, and need only be worked out smoothly to prove most satisfying.
But, as it happened, comedy would creep into the mystery and horror, which she mentally lumped together as agony.

Adventure ran riot, and straight love-making chapters made her sleepy, they bored her so.