After all, this inanimate thing was very much like himself.

It was lost, a thing out of place, and out of home; a wanderer from now on depending largely, like himself, on the charity of fate.

Almost gently he returned it to its newspaper wrapping.
Deep within him there was a sentiment which made him cherish little things which had belonged to the past--a baby's shoe, a faded ribbon, a withered flower that _she_ had worn on the night they were married; and memories--memories that he might better have let droop and die.
Something of this spirit was in the touch of his fingers as he placed the photograph on the table.
He finished undressing quietly.

Before he turned in he placed a hand on his head.

It was hot, feverish.