"I lifted my futile hand and slammed it hard against the rail. I did it again, and again, scarcely feeling the sting of the blows, in a frenzy of furious rage and grief. "Stop that!" a voice spoke behind me, and a hand seized my wrist, preventing me from slapping the rail yet again. "Let go!" I struggled, but his grip was too strong. "Stop," he said again, firmly. His other arm came around my waist, and he pulled me back, away from the rail. "You mustn't do that," he said. "You'll hurt yourself." "I don't bloody care!" I wrenched against his grasp, but then slumped, defeated. What did it matter? He let go of me then, and I turned to find myself facing a man I had never seen before. He wasn't a sailor; while his clothes were crumpled and stale with long wear, they had originally been very fine; the dove-gray coat and waistcoat had been tailored to flatter his slender frame, and the wilted lace at his throat had come from Brussels. "Who the hell are you?" I said in astonishment. I brushed at my wet cheeks, sniffed, and made an instinctive effort to smooth down my hair. I hoped the shadows hid my face. He smiled slightly, and handed me a handkerchief, crumpled, but clean. "My name is Grey," he said, with a small, courtly bow."