I tell you this, you'll not have me for a friend.

You have your troops of satellites; but take it as equal to a prophecy, you won't have London with you; and you'll hear of Lord Fleetwood and his Whitechapel Countess till your ears ache.' The preluding box on them reddened him.
'She will have the offer of Esslemont.' 'Undertake to persuade her in person.' 'I have spoken on that head.' 'Well, I may be mistaken,--I fancied it before I knew of the pair she springs from: you won't get her consent to anything without your consenting to meet her.

Surely it's the manlier way.

It might be settled for to-morrow, here, in this room.

She prays to meet you.' With an indicated gesture of 'Save me from it,' Fleetwood bowed.
He left no friend thinking over the riddle of his conduct.