Whatever is realised is right.

How clearly I saw it then, as now, I need not tell you. But I said to
myself, "At all costs I must keep love in my heart. If I go into prison
without love, what will become of my soul?" The letters I wrote to you
at that time from Holloway were my efforts to keep love as the dominant
note of my own nature. I could, if I had chosen, have torn you to pieces
with bitter reproaches. I could have rent you with maledictions.

The sins of another were being placed to my account. Had I so chosen, I
could on either trial have saved myself at his expense, not from shame
indeed, but from imprisonment.[54] Had I cared to show that the crown
witnesses--the three most important--had been carefully coached by your
father and his solicitors, not in reticences merely, but in assertions,
in the absolute transference deliberate, plotted, and rehearsed, of the
actions and doings of someone else on to me, I could have had each one
of them dismissed from the box by the judge, more summarily than even
wretched perjured Atkins was. I could have walked out of court with my
tongue in my cheek, and my hands in my pockets, a free man. The
strongest pressure was put upon me to do so, I was earnestly advised,
begged, entreated to do so by people, whose sole interest was my
welfare, and the welfare of my house. But I refused. I did not choose to
do so. I have never regretted my decision for a single moment, even in
the most bitter periods of my imprisonment. Such a course of action
would have been beneath me. Sins of the flesh are nothing. They are
maladies for physicians to cure, if they should be cured. Sins of the
soul alone are shameful. To have secured my acquittal by such means
would have been a life-long torture to me. But do you really think that
you were worthy of the love I was showing you then, or that for a single
moment I thought you were? Do you really think that any period of our
friendship you were worthy of the love I showed you, or that for a
single moment I thought you were? I knew you were not. But love does not
traffic in a market place, nor use a huckster's scales. Its joy, like
the joy of the intellect, is to feel itself alive. The aim of love is to
love; no more, and no less. You were my enemy; such an enemy as no man
ever had. I had given you my life; and to gratify the lowest and most
contemptible of all human passions, hatred and vanity and greed, you had
thrown it away. In less than three ye