conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Mayo, Flora, Lavenstock with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Death of Distinction'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Death of Distinction
  The two detectives exchanged glances, immediately realizing the mistake that had been made. 'We should've known you're too young to be his mother, love,' Farrar said, favouring her with one of his knock-'em-in-the-aisles smiles.
  Kite was looking hard at Josie. He wasn't as baby-faced as she'd thought, even if he did look like he couldn't hardly knock the skin off a rice pudding. Sergeant then, was he? After a moment, she shrugged.
  Taking in the puffy, beflowered three-piece suite, the state-of-the-art music centre, the twenty-seven-inch telly, the frilly Austrian blinds, Farrar said, 'Down the garage? Which one?'
  When they'd gone, she picked up and dialled. 'Barry? Guess who I've just had here. Yeah, they're on to him – what have you two been up to, the pair of you? What? No, I bloody didn't, but I will if they come here again. I'm not letting that little bleeder mess things up for us again, so you'd better be telling me the truth.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Anthony didn't show at his best, driving a car. He gave the impression of being in charge of a wild mustang, his arms stretched tensely to the steering wheel as if reining it in, snatching at the gears as if they might bite him, peering myopically through the screen. Sometimes, Flora wondered if he should be driving at all. The car bucked now, as he turned his head to gaze at her. 'Your mother?' he repeated.
  Oh God. He'd blown it. Damn it to hell. Blurting it out like a callow schoolboy. Any way to do something wrong, he'd surely find it.
  Flora said calmly, 'I know. It's what Da wanted, too. He told me so, just before he died.' A glow was spreading under her skin, her eyes were luminous. 'It's rather what I want, as well, Anthony, darling.'
  He was momentarily stunned, then he felt the blood rush to his head, he wanted to shout and sing. It just showed, you never knew. All these months. Old Jack! Flora! He twisted round to grab hold of her but the steering wheel was in the way. And then a distinctly sobering thought occurred to him. 'What will your mother say?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 'What will your mother say?'. He gave the impression of being in charge of a wild mustang, his arms stretched tensely to the steering wheel as if reining it in, snatching at the gears as if they might bite him, peering myopically through the screen. Sometimes, Flora wondered if he should be driving at all. The car bucked now, as he turned his head to gaze at her. 'Your mother?' he repeated.
  Oh God. He'd blown it. Damn it to hell. Blurting it out like a callow schoolboy. Any way to do something wrong, he'd surely find it.
  Flora said calmly, 'I know. It's what Da wanted, too. He told me so, just before he died.' A glow was spreading under her skin, her eyes were luminous. 'It's rather what I want, as well, Anthony, darling.'
  He was momentarily stunned, then he felt the blood rush to his head, he wanted to shout and sing. It just showed, you never knew. All these months. Old Jack! Flora! He twisted round to grab hold of her but the steering wheel was in the way. And then a distinctly sobering thought occurred to him.Anthony didn't show at his best, driving a car.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Claudia was one of the few people Dorothea could talk to with ease. They understood each other without much need for explanations. They always had, even all those years ago, when Claudia had first worked at Conyhall, younger and unsure of herself. They had neither of them ever before referred to the occasion when Claudia, touchy at being reprimanded over some slight thing by the governor, wanting to get her own back, had hinted to Dorothea about Jack's extra-marital affair. A hint was all Dorothea had needed to make her act, quite out of character, by employing an inquiry agent and then informing Charles Daventry of what she'd found out... Neither woman had dreamed what the terrible domino effect of that action would be.
  If the Queen had announced she was leaving Buckingham Palace, Claudia could not have been more astonished. Dorothea smiled at her incredulous face. She was quite surprised herself, hearing it put into words for the first time, though the words had slipped out so easily that she knew the idea had been in her mind for some considerable while, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
  Dorothea was. Though not so sure of her reasons. Was she making, in fact, a kind of atonement, a whacky kind of sacrifice to the gods? It didn't matter, she knew without question that she was doing the right thing. She would sell the house. She would wait until the bomb damage had been repaired and Flora was safely married to Anthony, and then she would put it on the market. It should fetch a good price. Jack had insisted on buying it when they came here, remarking ironically that he couldn't see her in Prison Service quarters. They had both loved the house from the start, and she had been enchanted with the garden, or at least the prospect of it, for it had been a wilderness then. The lovely, burgeoning thing it was now, she had created with her own hands, her own love; her knowledge had grown with it...
  She could already feel the quickening of interest at the idea, a growing excitement stirring her blood as she thought of the plans she could pore over during the winter evenings. There would be much to do, here and now: earmarking favourite things she might legitimately take with her, there would be seeds to sow, cuttings to strike. And, speaking of roses, there was a sumptuous fragrant Bourbon, Mme Pierre Oger, that she'd always wanted and never found the ideal place for...
  Claudia took her leave. 'I'll see you again before I go,' she said, turning to go back the way she'd come. She wasn't sure that Dorothea had even heard her. She was already on her knees, grubbing out yet another recalcitrant root of ground elder.