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 picture in my last chapter of the little, lame, harelipped hunch-back, with one blue eye and one black one, marching up Fifth Avenue with the comrades, wrapped in the red flag, her face stained with blood, humbling the Guggenheimers and the Morgans, disturbing the sleep of Henry Clay Frick, casting art treasures, bought with the blood of the poor, out to the pavement, breaking windows, shooting, torturing, devastating? Then the triumphant return to the East Side, Rosie on the men's shoulders. Everybody tired and sweaty, satiated and bloody. Now, all the realism of the interiors, gefillte fish and schnaps. But Rosie will sit down to her dinner in a Bendel evening gown, raped from one of the Kahn closets. The men come back for her. Another procession down Canal Street. The police charge the mob. Shots. The Vanderbilts and the Astors and the Schwabs in their Rolls-Royces and their Pierce-Arrows, fitted with machine-guns, charge the mob. Terrible slaughter. Rosie dead, a horrid mess, fully described, lying on the pavement. Everything lost. Everything worse than it was before. Deportation. Exile. Tenements razed. Old women, their sheitels awry, wrapped in half a dozen petticoats and thick shawls, bearing the sacred candlesticks, fleeing in all directions. Cries of Weh is mir! Moans. Groans. Desolation. And, at the end, a lone figure standing just where you and I were standing a little while ago, philosophizing,