“You two down there,” the demon within him began muttering, as his glance swept over Blacksod, from Preston Lane to the Malakite shop, “you two down there⁠ ⁠… when are you going to stop rending me and tearing my vitals?” This was not the first time lately that he caught himself coupling Gerda and Christie together. “These Bess Rounds,” he thought, “are a lot easier to manage than my two !” Repeating the syllables “my two” with all the more bitter relish because of his realization of their outrageousness, Wolf began descending the westerly slope of Poll’s Camp, with the intention of discovering some unorthodox way of striking Preston Lane without having to walk the whole length of the High Street.