People hoped for much, but expected a lot less, from the man with the powerful shoulders and crippled legs who stood before them, tightly gripping the rostrum, on that cloud-hung, windy March 4 in 1933. They had not voted for him; they had voted against Herbert Hoover. They knew him as a pretty good governor of New York, a man with a strong-chinned patrician face and the magic name of Roosevelt, a man with a broad Harvard accent and the wealthy, aloof heritage of Groton and Crum Elbow.
Walter Lippmann had written: "Franklin...
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