Then it was March. The new President promised that the only thing we had to fear was fear itself, and soon after that his head came packed in wood and excelsior from Mr. Nicholson’s foundry.

It was a fairly good likeness. She had caught the famous lift of the chin—it might not have looked like him at all if she hadn’t—and everyone told her it was fine. What nobody said was that her original plan had been right, and Mr. Nicholson shouldn’t have interfered: it was too small. It didn’t look heroic. If you could have hollowed it out and put a slot in the top, it might have made a serviceable bank for loose change.