“That I’m forced to do,” said Caleb, still more gently, lifting up his hand. “I am sorry. I don’t judge you and say, he is wicked, and I am righteous. God forbid. I don’t know everything. A man may do wrong, and his will may rise clear out of it, though he can’t get his life clear. That’s a bad punishment. If it is so with you⁠—well, I’m very sorry for you. But I have that feeling inside me, that I can’t go on working with you. That’s all, Mr. Bulstrode. Everything else is buried, so far as my will goes. And I wish you good day.”

“One moment, Mr. Garth!” said Bulstrode, hurriedly. “I may trust then to your solemn assurance that you will not repeat either to man or woman what⁠—even if it have any degree of truth in it⁠—is yet a malicious representation?” Caleb’s wrath was stirred, and he said, indignantly⁠—

“Why should I have said it if I didn’t mean it? I am in no fear of you. Such tales as that will never tempt my tongue.”