The footpad thought to leave you dead, but you are more resilient than that. If a rusted knife is all it would take, someone else would have thought of it long ago. You right yourself against the crumbling brick wall. The salty stink of the docks is in your nostrils, and not far away you hear the sound of revel and the cheapest affection money can buy. You look down. The knife sticks out of your chest, and it's ruined your third-best shirt. Annoyed, you wrap long white fingers around the hilt, and tug. Pain, familiar, unremarkable, cuts through you. You take a breath, the irritation coming again, and pull once more. This time the blade moves. With a few more modest efforts, you pull the thing out. Your shirt and waistcoat is bloody. Damn the man. You press your fingers through the gaping hole in the material of your shirt, but the ragged wound has already pressed itself back together and now it is stained pink skin only. With a little toss of your wrist, you send the knife back into the depths of the alley and grip your cane tighter. Perhaps you will run into the man again... and show him that some gentlemen do not fall so easily.