conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first three paragraphs for a book with the title 'Faithful Place'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Faithful Place
  I was nineteen, old enough to take on the world and young enough to be a dozen kinds of stupid, and that night as soon as both my brothers were snoring I slid out of our bedroom with my rucksack on my back and my Docs hanging from one hand. A floorboard creaked and in the girls' room one of my sisters murmured in her sleep, but I was magic that night, riding high on that surge tide, unstoppable; my parents didn't even turn over on the pullout bed as I moved through the front room, close enough to touch. The fire had burned down to nothing but a muttering red glow. In the rucksack was everything important I owned: jeans, T-shirts, a secondhand wireless, a hundred quid and my birth cert. That was all you needed to go over to England, back then. Rosie had the ferry tickets.
  Splintered floorboards, holes punched in plaster, debris and cold dark drafts and no one. In the top front room I found the note, just a page ripped out of a kid's school copy. On the bare floor, fluttering in the pale rectangle of light from the window, it looked like it had been there for a hundred years. That was when I felt that riptide change, jackknife and turn deadly, much too strong to fight and not on my side any more.
  I didn't take the note with me. By the time I left Number 16 I knew it by heart, and I had the rest of my life to try to believe it. I left it where it was and went back to the end of the road. I waited there in the shadows, watching the plumes of smoke that my breath sent into the lamplight, while the bells tolled three and four and five. The night faded to a thin sad gray and round the corner a milk cart clattered over cobblestones towards the dairy, and I was still waiting for Rosie Daly at the top of.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A breath, not quite a sigh. "What is a moment." She hung up. Her shadow moved behind her bedroom curtains, arms going into sleeves, hands running through her hair.
  She came to the door in a worn white dressing gown with a blue jersey nightdress peeking out from underneath, which presumably meant that at least I hadn't dragged her away from hot Dermo love. She put a finger to her lips and managed to draw me into the kitchen without touching me.
  I saw Olivia's throat move as she swallowed. It had been four years since I'd seen her hair loose—it only comes down for bed—and it gave my grip on reality another swift, painful kick in the knuckles. "Thirty-seven years old, Liv. He had half a dozen girls on the go because he wasn't ready to settle down yet. He wanted to see the Great Barrier Reef."
  I laughed. "Oh, yeah. Is there ever. The Murder Squad got it—not that there's anything to say it's a murder, but because of the link to Rosie: same location, the time frame. It's Scorcher Kennedy's baby now."
  Olivia's face closed over another notch. She knows Scorcher and doesn't particularly like him, or else doesn't particularly like me when I'm around him. She inquired politely, "Are you pleased?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She inquired politely, "Are you pleased?". "What is a moment." She hung up. Her shadow moved behind her bedroom curtains, arms going into sleeves, hands running through her hair.
  She came to the door in a worn white dressing gown with a blue jersey nightdress peeking out from underneath, which presumably meant that at least I hadn't dragged her away from hot Dermo love. She put a finger to her lips and managed to draw me into the kitchen without touching me.
  I saw Olivia's throat move as she swallowed. It had been four years since I'd seen her hair loose—it only comes down for bed—and it gave my grip on reality another swift, painful kick in the knuckles. "Thirty-seven years old, Liv. He had half a dozen girls on the go because he wasn't ready to settle down yet. He wanted to see the Great Barrier Reef."
  I laughed. "Oh, yeah. Is there ever. The Murder Squad got it—not that there's anything to say it's a murder, but because of the link to Rosie: same location, the time frame. It's Scorcher Kennedy's baby now."
  Olivia's face closed over another notch. She knows Scorcher and doesn't particularly like him, or else doesn't particularly like me when I'm around him.A breath, not quite a sigh.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All that night, after I shut the door and left Number 16 empty, I went looking for the parts of my city that have lasted. I walked down streets that got their names in the Middle Ages: Copper Alley, Fishamble Street, Blackpitts where the plague dead were buried. I looked for cobblestones worn smooth and iron railings gone thin with rust. I ran my hand over the cool stone of Trinity's walls and I crossed the spot where nine hundred years ago the town got its water from Patrick's Well; the street sign still tells you so, hidden in the Irish that no one ever reads. I paid no attention to the shoddy new apartment blocks and the neon signs, the sick illusions ready to fall into brown mush like rotten fruit. In a hundred years they'll be gone, replaced and forgotten. This is the truth of bombed-out ruins: hit a city hard enough and the cheap arrogant veneer will crumble faster than you can snap your fingers; it's the old stuff, the stuff that's endured, that might just keep enduring. I tilted my head up to see the delicate, ornate columns and balustrades above Grafton Street's chain stores and fast-food joints. I leaned my arms on the Ha'penny Bridge where people used to pay half a penny to cross the Liffey, I looked out at the Custom House and the shifting streams of lights and the steady dark roll of the river under the falling snow, and I hoped to God that somehow or other, before it was too late, we would all find our way back home.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about They're.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All that night, after I shut the door and left Number 16 empty, I went looking for the parts of my city that have lasted. I walked down streets that got their names in the Middle Ages: Copper Alley, Fishamble Street, Blackpitts where the plague dead were buried. I looked for cobblestones worn smooth and iron railings gone thin with rust. I ran my hand over the cool stone of Trinity's walls and I crossed the spot where nine hundred years ago the town got its water from Patrick's Well; the street sign still tells you so, hidden in the Irish that no one ever reads. I paid no attention to the shoddy new apartment blocks and the neon signs, the sick illusions ready to fall into brown mush like rotten fruit. They're nothing; they're not real. In a hundred years they'll be gone, replaced and forgotten. This is the truth of bombed-out ruins: hit a city hard enough and the cheap arrogant veneer will crumble faster than you can snap your fingers; it's the old stuff, the stuff that's endured, that might just keep enduring. I tilted my head up to see the delicate, ornate columns and balustrades above Grafton Street's chain stores and fast-food joints. I leaned my arms on the Ha'penny Bridge where people used to pay half a penny to cross the Liffey, I looked out at the Custom House and the shifting streams of lights and the steady dark roll of the river under the falling snow, and I hoped to God that somehow or other, before it was too late, we would all find our way back home.