In a district relief office in Pittsburgh, three men are sitting along one side of a table. They represent five hundred unemployed families. Opposite them sits a woman, the district supervisor. There has been excited talk. Suddenly one of the men gets up, his face white. He puts his head close to the woman’s; his eyes blaze at her: “Damn you! You don’t care what happens to the unemployed. God! how I hate you. I could tear your foul body to shreds, cut it up into strips—you don’t know what it means to be evicted. You live in a steam-heated apartment. I hate you. I could break every bone in your dirty carcass.”