The air was colder and clearer, but all the same, the dim-out made the night peculiar. We walked very slowly. I slipped my hand through Patrick's arm and said I would never get over the feeling you had in a dim-out that somebody was creeping up behind with the idea of socking you in the back of the head. He grinned, but as he lit our cigarettes he quietly looked behind us.
(from The Pink Umbrella, by Frances Crane)
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