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e Goblin Ulysses S. Grant was a butcher of young men, thought Mary who did not like his calm demeanor, his half-opened eyes, his gait like a melody of the darkest keys on the piano. His cigar smoke drifted everywhere— all through her hair, her layers of Chinese silk, her petticoats and under-things. Her own son Robert lived with him  now wherever the killing was. Her little Robert, his assistant. The general talked a long time with the president who nearly worshipped the little goblin. If these men kill me anymore, she thought, I will rip them from limb to limb to limb and drink their blood like wine. Like wine, I will drink their blood like wine. 9 ...

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