The cigarette went cold and clammy in his fingers, and in his eyes was that sadness of which Jose had spoken; and something else besides.
They would fight, those two, and fight to kill.

Since the world was first peopled, men had fought as they would fight--for love; for the possession of a pretty thing--warm, capricious, endearing, with possibly a heart and a soul beneath; possibly.

And love--what was love, after all?
What is love worth?
He had loved her, too; at least, he had felt all the emotions that either of them had felt for her.

He was not sure that he did not still feel them, or would if he let himself go.

He did not believe, however, that those emotions were worth more than everything else in the world; more than his life, or honor, or friendship.