To such a spirit this bold cunning man had come, stiff-necked and heaven-defiant, a "brand plucked from the burning:" and yet equally unconscious of his danger, and thankless for his respite.

Given, too, as it were, into her hands; tossed at her feet out of the very mouth of the pit,--why but that she might save him?
A far duller heart, a far narrower imagination than Grace's would have done what Grace's did--concentrate themselves round the image of that man with all the love of woman.

For, ere long, Grace found that she did love that man, as a woman loves but once in her life; perhaps in all time to come.
She found that her heart throbbed, her cheek flushed, when his name was mentioned; that she watched, almost unawares to herself, for his passing; and she was not ashamed at the discovery.

It was a sort of melancholy comfort to her that there was a great gulf fixed between them.

His station, his acquirements, his great connections and friends in London (for all Tom's matters were the gossip of the town, as, indeed, he took care that they should be), made it impossible that he should ever think of her; and therefore she held herself excused for thinking of him, without any fear of that "self-seeking," and "inordinate affection," and "unsanctified passions," which her religious books had taught her to dread.