Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. There was—a service. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere.
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