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211 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1942
She wanted to do two things, diametrically opposed, at one and the same time. Her limbs wanted to stand still, lock there, give her a chance to listen for it again, confirm it, disassociated from the sounds she herself was making. Terror wouldn't permit it. To stand still was to die. ... Her ears were straining to catch the faintest-- It came again, closer behind her this time, and yet, inversely, much fainter. A nothing at all, a whisper of the paving stones. So faint indeed that had she not heard it the first time, she would not have known she was hearing it at all this time.Quite often, Woolrich knows how to enthrall while simultaneously imbuing his fright-filled narratives with incongruously poetic atmosphere:
Through a luminous dust, composed of phosphorescent particles of greenish blue and silver, lines of incandescence had been traced, as though someone had drawn a radium-tipped stick through it that had left glowing traces. These were the streets and avenues. Around and about was the low black undulation made by the hills against a sky that, where it joined them in the west, was still a glowing turquoise, as though reflecting a hidden row of low-burning gas flames strung out along its base. Up above in the center of its dome it had darkened to night, so lavishly scattered with stars they were like a blinding shower of permanently upflung confetti. Or the afterstages of a burst skyrocket.You won't find that kind of 'romance' in Stephen King! ~ such picturesque diversions mitigate the tension that Woolrich will again, in boomerang fashion, unleash.