conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a plot for a book about Allen, Clare, High entitled The Quickening Maze?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Quickening Maze: Dr Matthew Allen runs an asylum called High Beach Private Asylum for mental patients of his.\nJohn Clare, a peasant poet from Northamptonshire who is not so famous then, is admitted in the asylum for his lunatic behaviours, memory lapses and delusions.\nDr Allen treats his patients differently from other mental institutes given them much freedom; especially to Clare by recognizing his talent in poetry.\nAlfred Tennyson\'s brother Septimus faces depression and he is also admitted in the asylum.\nTennyson and his family move to High Beach and stay nearby the asylum.\nDr Allen has an history of debts and was once imprisoned for frauds.\nHe is now collecting funds for a new carpentry machine called "Pyroglyph" that he claims to have patented in UK.\nHe convinces Tennyson and his family to invest in the machine.\nVarious patients with characteristic personalities and disorders have been included.\nA certain George Laidlaw is show to be obsessed with the national debt and Margaret keeps believing that God is speaking to her.\nCharles Seymour is from an aristocratic family and he is wrongly placed in the asylum by his family to avoid his marriage with his lover who the family deems unsuitable for him.\nVarious incidences of sexual violence between fellow inmates are noted in the asylum.\nAllen\'s teenage daughter, Hannah, craves for attention and starts fancying Tennyson.\nWhen she gets nothing out of it, she falls for Seymour.\nTennyson is also brooding over the death of his friend Arthur Hallam and is shown working on a memorial to Hallam.\nClare starts roaming about in the woods of Epping Forest coming in contact with local gypsies.\nHe treasures these wanderings where he finds time for his poems, if he is not claiming to be a prize fighter or Lord Byron or Shakespeare.\nTennyson loses much of his family fortunes in the wrong investments and decides to return to London determined to write about Hallam and Clare runs away from the institute and sets on his four-day walking journey back to his home finally reaching to his wife.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Quickening Maze
  Alfred Tennyson was tall and dark with lengthy limbs, a wide-mouthed bronze face and large hands. Taylor, comparing him with his dead friend, saw a different languor, a kind of tired ease about his presence that was unlike Keats, but there was a similar something - the gravid silence, perhaps. But not Keats's quickness, his darting anger.
  Tennyson watched him leave. A small man, not particularly smart, with a tired, kind face, but a friend of immortals, a survivor of poetry.
  Matthew Allen returned to the party with Taylor's money safely stowed in his desk. He liked handling money, liked possessing it, but the more potent and secret pleasure was risk. There was a pent force in having things at stake that seemed to charge one's limbs with energy and made eventual triumph more intense than could be imagined. This dream had been the cause of his early imprisonments in the past, but look at him now with his buildings, his patients, his distinguished reputation, and orders already accumulating for machine-carved wood. He held the new teapot high above his cup and poured a long, musical arc. By the end of the afternoon he had all the other Tennysons investing, except Septimus, whose nerves were to be spared the strain of capital adventure.
  John felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder. He knew its touch, its weight. 'Patty!' he said, turning.
  Patty sat down beside him on the hard, sour cot and pulled his head onto her shoulder, a strong and comforting woman. Her heavy cool fingers held his brow. She pulled him into the smell of her. He snaked an arm around the soft curve of her belly and grasped the cloth on the far side of her waist.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is another paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: His friends were elsewhere. Septimus was in the doctor's madhouse. His brother Edward was in another. His father was dead. Arthur Hallam, his friend, was dead and had taken out of the world with him energy, air, life. The greatest mind Alfred had known: widely commanding, clear and quick, inventive, adult, poetic. Arthur had loved Alfred's poetry, had defended it in print, he had loved Alfred and he was dead. He would have married Alfred's sister, would have become the best element in his family, but he had died and left Alfred alone.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Just outside Peterborough, a man and a woman in a cart called to him. They were old neighbours from his infancy's village of Helpston. They'd recognised him. He bent over and held his knees and called to them that he hadn't eaten or drunk since he'd left London. They found fivepence between them and threw it down. He picked it up from the road, thanking them, waving his ruined hat as they drove away.
  A small pub by a bridge over a noisy stream. Inside, the fivepence became twopence of bread and cheese and two half-pints. He dozed as he chewed, struggling to keep his eyes open, but in a little while the food had dispersed into him as strength. Starting to walk again, the pain from his torn feet was sharpened by the rest, but he was too near home now to sit down on the road - he would have been ashamed to do it lest he be seen by people he knew.
  Peterborough. Streets. Windows. People. Horses. Peterborough dwindling behind him. Then Walton. Then Werrington. A few miles only to go. A cart stopped beside him. It carried a man, a woman and a boy. 'Get in,' they told him, but he refused; he was so close, they needn't bother for him. But the woman kept insisting with a passion that made him suspect she was drunk or mad. 'It's Patty,' she said. 'It's Patty, your wife. Get in.' They hauled him up onto the cart and he lay on his back to be carried the final miles home. He stared up at the clouds that moved with them. He felt the rough pressure of Patty's kisses on his face. 'John,' Patty said. 'Poor John. You're almost home. You're here.' He'd made it. It was all behind him. Patty wiped the dirt from his face with her heavy clean hand. She stroked his head. His legs twitched. He turned his face into the smell of her. He licked his cracked lips. 'Patty,' he whispered. 'Patty.'