Tuesday. Franklin Roosevelt needed a haircut. Tufts of grey hair stuck out over his ears, straggled wispily over the top of his head. Coatless, wearing a white shirt and plaid tie, he leaned back in his swivel chair and waited for some 80 reporters to shuffle into a semicircle before his cluttered desk. The familiar signal flags of weariness were up—an air of fatigued abstraction, a dark web of crow's-feet about his eyes, a deep etching of lines in the loose, sand-grey skin of his face.
But Franklin Roosevelt, often at his best...
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