It did not alarm me so much as it distracted my thoughts, and kept them from dwelling upon possibilities far more perilous to me than the danger of death by shipwreck.

A short suffering such a death would be.
My escape and flight had been so unexpected, so unhoped for, that it had bewildered me, and it was almost a pleasure to lie still and listen to the din and uproar of the sea and the swoop of the wind rushing down upon it.

Was I myself or no?
Was this nothing more than a very coherent, very vivid dream, from which I should awake by-and-by to find myself a prisoner still, a creature as wretched and friendless as any that the streets of London contained?
My flight had been too extraordinary a success, so far, for my mind to be able to dwell upon it calmly.
I watched the dawn break through a little port-hole opening upon my berth, which had been washed and beaten by the water all the night long.
The level light shone across the troubled and leaden-colored surface of the sea, which seemed to grow a little quieter under its touch.

I had fancied during the night that the waves were running mountains high; but now I could see them, they only rolled to and fro in round, swelling hillocks, dull green against the eastern sky, with deep, sullen troughs of a livid purple between them.

But the fury of the storm had spent itself, that was evident, and the steamer was making way steadily now.
The stewardess had gone away early in the night, being frightened to death, she said, to seek more genial companionship than mine.