conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Cast a Cold Eye about Clive, Lethbridge, Ambitious with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ambitious but troubled architect Clive Lethbridge throws a cocktail party at his country home outside Birmingham, England, to celebrate his prize-winning design for a holistic health center in Norway. The next day, an unknown person bashes his head. When solid and sensitive Detective Chief Inspector Gil Mayo investigates, he learns that Lethbridge had many enemies. In addition, Clive's wife shows signs of involvement with Matt Royston, a famous TV and newspaper journalist collaborating with Clive on a book. Pace and plot remain steadily engaging as Mayowith some help from Roystonweeds through the suspects. A tidy package. REK<BR>Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cast a Cold Eye
  The whole weekend was a huge success. On Saturday, he drove out to Salthill and spent an hour strolling along the beach, enjoying the sand and the scent of the ocean. Here the salty air reminded him of the New Jersey shore in winter, something the damp winds and rocky coast of Doolin had not done.
  He drove back to Galway in time to change out of jeans and into slacks and a jacket for dinner and his meeting with Brian Dunphy. When he was dressed, he just had time for a quick phone call to Grainne. He called from a telephone kiosk in the hotel lobby, but there was no answer.
  While they drank coffee after the meal, Jack said he'd read about a pub called the King's Head in High Street that had music on the weekends. With yet another common interest strengthening the bond between them, they hurried off to Dunphy's car and drove at breakneck speed through Claddagh and Salthill again, then out on the twisting coastal road as far as the village of Spiddal. There, Dunphy took him to a pub called An Cruiscin Lan, in the heart of the Connemara Gaeltacht, an Irish-speaking area, and the only English he heard spoken or sung for the rest of the evening was their own.
  By the end of the evening, he'd learned two dozen words in Irish, plus a few lines of one song, and he and Brian Dunphy were fast friends for life. He'd been planning to try Grainne again when he reached the hotel, but by then he was too tired and the lager was buzzing too loud in his head. He slept until eleven o'clock Sunday morning, but a sympathetic waiter in the dining room saw to it that he got his breakfast anyway.
  If Brian Dunphy had been free on Sunday, Jack would have stayed another day, but Dunphy was tied up and Jack decided he should go back to Doolin and be ready to start work, refreshed and renewed, on Monday morning.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Irish, Dunphy, asked, interested, played.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cast a Cold Eye
  The whole weekend was a huge success. On Saturday, he drove out to Salthill and spent an hour strolling along the beach, enjoying the sand and the scent of the ocean. Here the salty air reminded him of the New Jersey shore in winter, something the damp winds and rocky coast of Doolin had not done. 
  He drove back to Galway in time to change out of jeans and into slacks and a jacket for dinner and his meeting with Brian Dunphy. When he was dressed, he just had time for a quick phone call to Grainne. He called from a telephone kiosk in the hotel lobby, but there was no answer. 
  While they drank coffee after the meal, Jack said he'd read about a pub called the King's Head in High Street that had music on the weekends. Dunphy asked if he was interested in the genuine article, traditional Irish music played on authentic instruments and songs sung in Irish. With yet another common interest strengthening the bond between them, they hurried off to Dunphy's car and drove at breakneck speed through Claddagh and Salthill again, then out on the twisting coastal road as far as the village of Spiddal. There, Dunphy took him to a pub called An Cruiscin Lan, in the heart of the Connemara Gaeltacht, an Irish-speaking area, and the only English he heard spoken or sung for the rest of the evening was their own. 
  By the end of the evening, he'd learned two dozen words in Irish, plus a few lines of one song, and he and Brian Dunphy were fast friends for life. He'd been planning to try Grainne again when he reached the hotel, but by then he was too tired and the lager was buzzing too loud in his head. He slept until eleven o'clock Sunday morning, but a sympathetic waiter in the dining room saw to it that he got his breakfast anyway. 
  If Brian Dunphy had been free on Sunday, Jack would have stayed another day, but Dunphy was tied up and Jack decided he should go back to Doolin and be ready to start work, refreshed and renewed, on Monday morning.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jack had made up his mind that he was not going to let his own worry and gloom cast a pall over her visit. He had also made up his mind that he was not going to let her stay anywhere near Doolin for more than a day or two, not here, not where she might be in danger. He'd tell her he had to be away, in London, in New York, in Los Angeles, somewhere, to sign contracts or something equally urgent. She'd have to go back to Dublin but he'd be flying back as soon as he could and he'd see her there. He'd make it convincing; didn't he make his living by telling stories? At the same time, he didn't think for a minute that she'd believe him.
  He'd been looking forward so much to seeing her, being with her, even though the strange things he'd experienced had been filling his thoughts. Through all of it, she was always there, a presence in his mind, a presence in his life, even though he could still add up the meager number of hours they'd spent together, the number of conversations on the phone. It was true, they hardly knew each other, and yet he felt this closeness and thought she felt it too. No, of course she felt it. If she didn't, she never would have come here in the first place and certainly would never have returned. He went back through the whole long list of factors he'd considered before—the fact that he was alone in a strange country, that there was no particular girlfriend at home in the States, all the rest of it—and wondered that he was no wiser at deciding if he was in love than he'd been at half this age.
  But it was only when he came running out of the house into the bitingly cold air and saw her throwing open the car door and coming toward him—a flash of color: faded blue jeans, red windbreaker, white teeth in a happy smile—that he knew it all for sure. They'd spoken on the phone often since she'd left, usually every other night, and he'd treasured the sound of her voice, her inquiries about how his work was going, was he eating properly, was he dressing warmly, and he was always hungry to hear how she was herself and what she was doing, but no mechanically reproduced voice on a telephone could fill the place of her actual presence here, coming toward him, coming into his arms.
  They came together as if they'd been separated for years. The joining took her breath away as well as his. Then everything was gone—wind, gray clouds, cold air, stony hillside, wet gravel underfoot—and there was only her body pressed tight against him, her breasts crushed hard against his chest, her lips full and warm against his own, her tongue seeking his. He wrapped her in his arms, would have wrapped himself around her, crushed her to him, feeling sudden alarm at the thinness of her body, the slightness of her, the fragility so easily damaged or broken. He held her with one arm around the small of her back and the other at her shoulders, his hand at the back of her head, fingers twined in her hair, pulling her close and hard against him.
  Then they pulled apart at the same instant, hearts pounding, desperate for breath. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. He felt her hair against his face. Her arms were around his waist.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Her arms were around his waist. He had also made up his mind that he was not going to let her stay anywhere near Doolin for more than a day or two, not here, not where she might be in danger. He'd tell her he had to be away, in London, in New York, in Los Angeles, somewhere, to sign contracts or something equally urgent. She'd have to go back to Dublin but he'd be flying back as soon as he could and he'd see her there. He'd make it convincing; didn't he make his living by telling stories? At the same time, he didn't think for a minute that she'd believe him.
  He'd been looking forward so much to seeing her, being with her, even though the strange things he'd experienced had been filling his thoughts. Through all of it, she was always there, a presence in his mind, a presence in his life, even though he could still add up the meager number of hours they'd spent together, the number of conversations on the phone. It was true, they hardly knew each other, and yet he felt this closeness and thought she felt it too. No, of course she felt it. If she didn't, she never would have come here in the first place and certainly would never have returned. He went back through the whole long list of factors he'd considered before—the fact that he was alone in a strange country, that there was no particular girlfriend at home in the States, all the rest of it—and wondered that he was no wiser at deciding if he was in love than he'd been at half this age.
  But it was only when he came running out of the house into the bitingly cold air and saw her throwing open the car door and coming toward him—a flash of color: faded blue jeans, red windbreaker, white teeth in a happy smile—that he knew it all for sure. They'd spoken on the phone often since she'd left, usually every other night, and he'd treasured the sound of her voice, her inquiries about how his work was going, was he eating properly, was he dressing warmly, and he was always hungry to hear how she was herself and what she was doing, but no mechanically reproduced voice on a telephone could fill the place of her actual presence here, coming toward him, coming into his arms.
  They came together as if they'd been separated for years. The joining took her breath away as well as his. Then everything was gone—wind, gray clouds, cold air, stony hillside, wet gravel underfoot—and there was only her body pressed tight against him, her breasts crushed hard against his chest, her lips full and warm against his own, her tongue seeking his. He wrapped her in his arms, would have wrapped himself around her, crushed her to him, feeling sudden alarm at the thinness of her body, the slightness of her, the fragility so easily damaged or broken. He held her with one arm around the small of her back and the other at her shoulders, his hand at the back of her head, fingers twined in her hair, pulling her close and hard against him.
  Then they pulled apart at the same instant, hearts pounding, desperate for breath. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. He felt her hair against his face.Jack had made up his mind that he was not going to let his own worry and gloom cast a pall over her visit.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Grainne's grip tightened on his arm. "Mo ghrá thú," she murmured close to his ear. "I love you, Jack."
  There is a town named Doolin in County Clare, on the western coast of Ireland, but it and its residents share only a name with the Doolin I describe in.
  And my grandmother, Jenny Bjerre, who was born in Dublin in 1879, the daughter of Mary Mullen and Patrick Boshell, and who died in New York in 1969. She left Ireland in 1900, not once looking back, but having prepared for me a gift it took eighty years to find.