Marie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her father as "cutting up very rough." To her who had known her father all her life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of love in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through Didon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving, and she did love the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses of others whom she did not love,--but this she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the marvellous world in which she was now living. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales on account of any awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation. 
Marie was dissatisfied with her letter, because there was no word of love in it. An impassioned correspondence would be delightful to her. She loved the young man, and was living in a new, marvellous world. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew. She became conscious of an identity of her own, partly because her increasing familiarity with grand people meant she was no longer in awe of them. She was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales. She was drifting away even from the sense of obligation to her father.
