Now that it seems plainer she won't take illness as a reason to toss him-- or, more importantly, Feuilly-- out on the street, Harry admits, "I might have a touch of fever still."

Enough to make him feel oddly clammy, anyway. He brushes his hair back and, yes, there's sweat on his forehead. But the soup smells good, and the warmth of it feels even better. He tries for a moment or two to remember Feuilly's way with table manners, but quickly gives it up and digs in eagerly.