conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first two paragraphs for a book with the title 'An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England
  I believed him. They were in serious need, I could tell, because the two mute Ryans actually parted their lips as if preparing to speak. I even felt sorry for them, which was a switch because in prison I always admired them. Now they seemed pathetic and desperate, and I couldn't be mad at them, not even Morgan.
  I didn't even listen to what came next, the chorus of threats and pleading and further, more detailed threats—I knew it all too well from Thomas Coleman's visit to Camelot, knew exactly what the bond analysts would say and how they would say it, and so I stood there and let the white noise of their recriminations wash over me until the bond analysts exhausted themselves, broke the flying V, walked back down the front steps, and piled into a Saab, the humpbacked kind. "You'll be sorry you didn't help us, Sam," Morgan yelled, and he was right: in just a few days I would be very sorry that I hadn't helped them. As though to emphasize the point, Morgan again yelled, "You'll be sorry," then jammed the car into gear and drove off.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about going.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England
  I believed him. They were in serious need, I could tell, because the two mute Ryans actually parted their lips as if preparing to speak. I even felt sorry for them, which was a switch because in prison I always admired them. Now they seemed pathetic and desperate, and I couldn't be mad at them, not even Morgan. No, I couldn't stay angry with them, but I knew they'd be angry with me once I told them what I was going to tell them. 
  I didn't even listen to what came next, the chorus of threats and pleading and further, more detailed threats—I knew it all too well from Thomas Coleman's visit to Camelot, knew exactly what the bond analysts would say and how they would say it, and so I stood there and let the white noise of their recriminations wash over me until the bond analysts exhausted themselves, broke the flying V, walked back down the front steps, and piled into a Saab, the humpbacked kind. "You'll be sorry you didn't help us, Sam," Morgan yelled, and he was right: in just a few days I would be very sorry that I hadn't helped them. As though to emphasize the point, Morgan again yelled, "You'll be sorry," then jammed the car into gear and drove off.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I took my drink and went and stood in front of the band. I didn't recognize the song they were playing, but when it ended, someone yelled out, "Creedence!" This seemed to encourage the guys in the band, because they launched into another song, a favorite apparently, and the dance floor got crowded—women dancing with men, women with women, men without partners stomping their feet and singing into their beer bottles—and before I knew it, I was dancing, too.
  And I was remembering and dreaming all this in the bar, too. I was so deep in my dream that the song ended with a crash of drums and a shudder of bass and a screech of guitar, and still I danced in the middle of the crowd. People were staring at me. I didn't blame them one bit and would have stared, too. I drank down my shot of bourbon, as though that would make them stop staring. It didn't. I looked around for help, to see if there was someone around who could come to my rescue.
  There was: a woman to my right, holding a lit joint. I hadn't noticed her before that moment, and I've never seen her since. She was exactly my height. Her eyes were dark brown and they were squinting at me in bemusement, or maybe from the joint's smoke. She wasn't wearing earrings and for that matter had no holes in her lobes in which to put them. Her hair was straight and black and about ready to come out of her ponytail, although you could tell she would be as beautiful with her hair down as up, and that hair didn't matter much to her and was just something that happened to be on top of her head. Other than these details, I know nothing about her, not even her name, although I think about her all the time, the way you do about people and things that change your life forever—although I doubt she thinks about me, which is the way life works, which is why I'm sure Noah couldn't ever stop thinking about his Flood, but once the water receded, I'm sure it didn't once think about him.
  I wasn't thinking of any of this at the time. I wasn't even thinking about Anne Marie and Thomas, wasn't even lying to myself about being a victim with rights rather than a victimizer with no rights at all. All I was thinking was that there was a beautiful woman standing next to me, smiling at me even, her smile making the bad band sound not so awfully bad, and she had two cheeks and I wanted to kiss the one nearest to me. I leaned over and kissed her cheek, and then she turned her lips toward mine, and so I kissed them, too, with feeling, and when the kissing didn't seem to be enough anymore, we groped, enthusiastically and without regard to anyone else in the bar, as though our hands were made invisible on contact. All of this went on for a long time. I know this because eventually my lips began to get tired and there was considerable hooting and clapping that didn't seem intended for the band. I glanced up to see who was making all this noise and saw my father-in-law, Mr. Mirabelli, standing directly behind the woman. And a few feet behind him, I saw my mother. Neither of them was hooting or clapping. Both of them were looking directly at me in huge disappointment, as though the bar were a museum and I were a famous painting that they'd paid too much to see.
  I was late but not entirely stupid. I didn't drive all the way to the Robert Frost Place, didn't park in the parking lot as I'd done earlier. Like a real detective might do, I pulled off the road about a quarter of a mile from the house, into a slot in the snowbank that the snowplows must have used as a turnaround, parked my van there, and sneaked up to the house. This cost me some more time, of course, and by the time I got there, the bond analysts had already set fire to the Robert Frost Place and were standing in the parking lot watching the house burn. Their Saab was next to them with its engine on. The parking lot was ringed by white pines, and I hid behind one of them, close enough to hear what the bond analysts were saying.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I didn't recognize the song they were playing, but when it ended, someone yelled out, "Creedence!" This seemed to encourage the guys in the band, because they launched into another song, a favorite apparently, and the dance floor got crowded—women dancing with men, women with women, men without partners stomping their feet and singing into their beer bottles—and before I knew it, I was dancing, too.
  And I was remembering and dreaming all this in the bar, too. I was so deep in my dream that the song ended with a crash of drums and a shudder of bass and a screech of guitar, and still I danced in the middle of the crowd. People were staring at me. I didn't blame them one bit and would have stared, too. I drank down my shot of bourbon, as though that would make them stop staring. It didn't. I looked around for help, to see if there was someone around who could come to my rescue.
  There was: a woman to my right, holding a lit joint. I hadn't noticed her before that moment, and I've never seen her since. She was exactly my height. Her eyes were dark brown and they were squinting at me in bemusement, or maybe from the joint's smoke. She wasn't wearing earrings and for that matter had no holes in her lobes in which to put them. Her hair was straight and black and about ready to come out of her ponytail, although you could tell she would be as beautiful with her hair down as up, and that hair didn't matter much to her and was just something that happened to be on top of her head. Other than these details, I know nothing about her, not even her name, although I think about her all the time, the way you do about people and things that change your life forever—although I doubt she thinks about me, which is the way life works, which is why I'm sure Noah couldn't ever stop thinking about his Flood, but once the water receded, I'm sure it didn't once think about him.
  I wasn't thinking of any of this at the time. I wasn't even thinking about Anne Marie and Thomas, wasn't even lying to myself about being a victim with rights rather than a victimizer with no rights at all. All I was thinking was that there was a beautiful woman standing next to me, smiling at me even, her smile making the bad band sound not so awfully bad, and she had two cheeks and I wanted to kiss the one nearest to me. I leaned over and kissed her cheek, and then she turned her lips toward mine, and so I kissed them, too, with feeling, and when the kissing didn't seem to be enough anymore, we groped, enthusiastically and without regard to anyone else in the bar, as though our hands were made invisible on contact. All of this went on for a long time. I know this because eventually my lips began to get tired and there was considerable hooting and clapping that didn't seem intended for the band. I glanced up to see who was making all this noise and saw my father-in-law, Mr. Mirabelli, standing directly behind the woman. And a few feet behind him, I saw my mother. Neither of them was hooting or clapping. Both of them were looking directly at me in huge disappointment, as though the bar were a museum and I were a famous painting that they'd paid too much to see.
  I was late but not entirely stupid. I didn't drive all the way to the Robert Frost Place, didn't park in the parking lot as I'd done earlier. Like a real detective might do, I pulled off the road about a quarter of a mile from the house, into a slot in the snowbank that the snowplows must have used as a turnaround, parked my van there, and sneaked up to the house. This cost me some more time, of course, and by the time I got there, the bond analysts had already set fire to the Robert Frost Place and were standing in the parking lot watching the house burn. Their Saab was next to them with its engine on. The parking lot was ringed by white pines, and I hid behind one of them, close enough to hear what the bond analysts were saying.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: AN ALGONQUIN READERS ROUND TABLE EDITION WITH READING GROUP GUIDE AND OTHER SPECIAL FEATURES • FICTION • ISBN-13: 978-1-56512-543-8
  When Frances arranges to host Thanksgiving at her idyllic New England farmhouse, she envisions a happy family reunion, one that will include her sister, Cynthia. But tension mounts between them as each struggles with a different version of the mysterious circumstances surrounding their mother's death twenty-five years earlier.
  AN ALGONQUIN READERS ROUND TABLE EDITION WITH READING GROUP GUIDE AND OTHER SPECIAL FEATURES • FICTION • ISBN-13: 978-1-56512-579-7
  When Robey Childs's mother has a premonition about her husband, who is away fighting in the Civil War, she sends her only son to find him and bring him home. At fourteen, Robey thinks he's off on a great adventure. But it takes the gift of a powerful and noble coal black horse to show him how to undertake the most important journey in his life.
  AN ALGONQUIN READERS ROUND TABLE EDITION WITH READING GROUP GUIDE AND OTHER SPECIAL FEATURES • FICTION • ISBN-13: 978-1-56512-601-5