Last week an unaccountable gloom settled over Washington, wrapping its marble palaces in melancholy thick as the wet grey fogs that float up from the Potomac. Congress seemed listless, disheartened, worried.
The flag came down from the White House staff; a haggard, grey-faced, weary President was whisked over slush-bound streets to his special train on the lower concourse of echoing Union Station. Prying newsmen had discovered Franklin Roosevelt was headed for Pensacola, guessed he would there board the cruiser Tuscaloosa. But every movement had been shrouded in gloomy mystery; trainmen acted as if they...
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