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Hardcover
First published January 1, 1951
He got his hands on my throat and began to squueze. He had a grip like a monkey-wrench, and the air was cut off from my lungs. I clubbed him on the bridge of his nose and flattened it, crashing the back of his head on the floor. For a second or so he was dazed and the strength went out of his hands. I tore his fingers from my throat, twisted clear, crawled up on hands and knees. He was up on his feet a shade after I had straightened up. His face was a snarling mask of blood which poured from his broken nose.Not exactly poetry, but quintessential noir writing.