"You can do it with a tone, too," he says, enjoying a mildly homesick image of snow, and mountains, and more snow. "The feminine one," he says, irritated. It had started everything for him, and 'which one,' really.
"And run mad in the woods for a year or three..." Although Rus would probably enjoy that.
"Oh, myself," he says, still distractedly, and, "What, I didn't say anything," as he implants FUMBLING UNWORTHY FOOL OF A BOOTLICKER so hard into the man's subconscious that he outshines Rincewind for a good six weeks.