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He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot, They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot, And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire, Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar. Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope, The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope; For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar, Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
"Dear me, Sam, is that you?" she cried out in a voice closely resembling his in its cheery accents, although more musical by reason of its feminine ring; "I'm just dishing up, and dinner'll be ready as soon as the pasty's done." Her brother did not apparently pay any attention to this highly important announcement for the moment. "Come here, Jane," he said, "I've brought home a visitor."
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