She can't remember a time when her father found fault with her. Even when she'd gotten into some childish trouble, he would only shake his head and ask her, mildly, what on earth she had been doing. She'd had her ears scalded by exasperated nuns once or twice; never by him.
Which doesn't explain how desperately she tried to be good. Not when she was deliberately breaking rules -- stealing sugar, sneaking out of bed at night with Lise and Laurentine. Then she was full of something that sparkled and stung her to daring, some cheerful devil that possessed her, and though she might be sorry afterwards for causing other people trouble, she never really regretted.
It was at other times that the shadow caught at her mind, the fear that something she didn't know she was doing would bring wrath down on her head. She felt, obscurely, that when you were most trying to be good was when you were most likely to be caught.
Now she is grown, and Marius frightens her sometimes with his adoration. Oh don't, don't, she thinks; I'm not perfect, I know I'm not, and you'll be so angry when you find it out--
So she tries, still, to be good; to be better than anyone expects her to be. Just in case.