roosevelt's friend, frances perkins, sensed a collective shiver in the hall, a sudden sorrow over this public exhibition of what had been lost. there was a hush, and everybody was holding their breath, she recalled. everybody was sort of weeping inwardly. the old line politicians even remembered him as a very vigorous young pan at the previous convention -- young man, and here now was terribly crippled person, getting himself to the platform somehow be, looking so pale, so thin, so delicate. he reached the lectern. with both hands gripping the handles of his crutches, he could not wave, so he threw his head up and grinned. it just tore the place to pieces, perkins said. when the noise subsided, the voice that emerged from the weak figure on the platform was superb. the accent and enunciation were of the high church episcopal pulpit and the wall street boardroom, governor and labor. but the words were plain and blunt, and there was a note of fellow feeling that bescrooged any position that the speaker, however highborn, was a snob. the pace was stately, unhurried with pauses deftly time