When Laertes returns, his hands are folded around a strip of leather. When he reaches Sagramore, he unfurls it into a collar--soft brown leather with a dull brass buckle, neat and unobtrusive, the kind that a man might wear as easily as a dog. "Thou needst not keep it, an thou dost not want it," he says, low. "I only thought it might please thee to wear it, when thou art my dog."