conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first paragraph for a book with the title 'The Bridge of San Luis Rey'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Bridge of San Luis Rey
  Camila was about thirty when she left the stage, and it required five years for her to achieve her place in society. She gradually became almost stout, though her head seemed to grow more beautiful every year. She took to overdressing, and the floors of the drawing-rooms reflected a veritable tower of jewels and scarves and plumes. Her face and hands were covered with a bluish powder against which she drew an irritable mouth in scarlet and orange. The almost distraught fury of her temper was varied by the unnatural sweetness of her address in the company of the dowagers. In the earliest stages of her progress upward she had intimated to Uncle Pio that he was not to be seen with her in public, but finally she became impatient even of his discreeter visits. She conducted the interviews with formality and evasion. Her eyes never crossed his, and she angled for pretexts to quarrel with him. Still he ventured out once a month to try her patience, and when the call had become impossible he would climb the stairs and finish the hour among her children.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Camila was silent a moment, then said abruptly: 'Very well,' and closed the shutter. Presently she appeared around the corner of the house. She wore a thick cloak that dragged in the dew. She stood at a distance and said: 'Come over here to where I am standing. Who are you?'
  Now it was that Uncle Pio felt obliged to use a hard measure. 'Then pay me the money that you owe me,' he said.
  Camila stood still, confounded. To herself she said: 'Life is too fearful to bear. When may I die?' After a moment she answered him, in a hoarse voice: 'I have very little money. I will pay you what I can. I will pay you now. I have a few jewels here. Then we need never see one another again.' She was ashamed of her poverty. She took a few steps, then turned and said: 'Now I see that you are a very hard man. But it is right I pay you what I owe you.'
  She returned to the house. The next day the grave little boy appeared at the Inn. His fine clothes were torn and stained now and he carried a small bundle for change. His mother had given him a gold piece for spending-money and a little stone that shone in the dark to look at in his sleepless nights. They set off together in a cart, but soon Uncle Pio became aware that the jolting was not good for the boy. He carried him on his shoulder. As they drew near to the bridge of San Luis Rey, Jaime tried to conceal his shame, for he knew that one of those moments was coming that separated him from other people. He was especially ashamed because Uncle Pio had just overtaken a friend of his, a sea-captain. And just as they got to the bridge he spoke to an old lady who was travelling with a little girl. Uncle Pio said that when they had crossed the bridge they would sit down and rest, but it turned out not to be necessary.
  The thing was more difficult than he had foreseen. Almost every soul in a difficult frontier community turned out to be indispensable economically, and the third column was all but useless. The examiner was driven to the use of minus terms when he confronted the personal character of Alfonso V., who was not, like Vera N., merely bad: he was a propagandist for badness and not merely avoided church but led others to avoid it. Vera N. was indeed bad, but she was a model worshipper and the mainstay of a full hut. From all these saddening data Brother Juniper contrived an index for each peasant He added up the total for victims and compared it with the total for survivors, to discover that the dead were five times more worth saving. It almost looked as though the pestilence had been directed against the really valuable people in the village of Puerto. And on that afternoon Brother Jumper took a walk along the edge of the Pacific. He tore up his findings and cast them into the waves; he gazed for an hour upon the great clouds of pearl that hang for ever upon the horizon of that sea, and extracted from the beauty a resignation that he did not permit his reason to examine. The discrepancy between faith and the facts is greater than is generally assumed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The tall, rather languorous beauty entered the room. Doña Clara, who was generally so adequate, seemed constrained for once. 'Are you busy, dear Mother? May I talk to you for a while?'
  The Condesa showed the Abbess Doña María's last letter. Madre María dared not say aloud how great her astonishment was that such words (words that since then the whole world has murmured over with joy) could spring in the heart of Pepita's mistress. 'Now learn,' she commanded herself, 'learn at last that anywhere you may expect grace.' And she was filled with happiness like a girl at this new proof that the traits she lived for were everywhere, that the world was ready. 'Will you do me a kindness, my daughter? Will you let me show you my work?'
  The sun had gone down, but the Abbess led the way with a lantern down corridor after corridor. Doña Clara saw the old and the young, the sick and the blind, but most of all she saw the tired, bright old woman who was leading her. The Abbess would stop in a passage way and say suddenly: 'I can't help thinking that something could be done for the deaf-and-dumb. It seems to me that some patient person could... could study out a language for them. You know there are hundreds and hundreds in Peru. Do you remember whether anyone in Spain has found a way for them? Well, some day they will.' Or a little later: 'Do you know, I keep thinking that something can be done for the insane. I am old, you know, and I cannot go where these things are talked about, but I watch them sometimes and it seems to me... In Spain, now, they are gentle with them? It seems to me that there is a secret about it, just hidden from us, just around the corner. Some day back in Spain, if you hear of anything that would help us, you will write me a letter... if you are not too busy?'
  At last, after Doña Clara had seen even the kitchens, the Abbess said: 'Now will you excuse me, for I must go into the room of the very sick and say a few words for them to think about when they cannot sleep? I will not ask you to come with me there, for you are not accustomed to such – such sounds and things. And besides, I only talk to them as one talks to children.' She looked up at her with her modest rueful smile. Suddenly she disappeared a moment to return with one of her helpers, one who had likewise been involved in the affair of the bridge, and who had formerly been an actress. 'She is leaving me,' said the Abbess, 'for some work across the city, and when I have spoken here I must leave you both, for the flour-broker will not wait for me any longer, and our argument will take a long time.'
  But Doña Clara stood in the door as the Abbess talked to them, the lamp placed on the floor beside her. Madre María stood with her back against a post; the sick lay in rows gazing at the ceiling and trying to hold their breaths. She talked that night of all those out in the dark (she was thinking of Esteban alone, she was thinking of Pepita alone) who had no one to turn to, for whom the world perhaps was more than difficult, without meaning. And those who lay in their beds there felt that they were within a wall that the Abbess had built for them; within all was light and warmth, and without was the darkness they would not exchange even for a relief from pain and from dying. But even while she was talking, other thoughts were passing in the back of her mind. 'Even now,' she thought, 'almost no one remembers Esteban and Pepita but myself. Camila alone remembers her Uncle Pio and her son; this woman, her mother. But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: '. Doña Clara, who was generally so adequate, seemed constrained for once. 'Are you busy, dear Mother? May I talk to you for a while?'
  The Condesa showed the Abbess Doña María's last letter. Madre María dared not say aloud how great her astonishment was that such words (words that since then the whole world has murmured over with joy) could spring in the heart of Pepita's mistress. 'Now learn,' she commanded herself, 'learn at last that anywhere you may expect grace.' And she was filled with happiness like a girl at this new proof that the traits she lived for were everywhere, that the world was ready. 'Will you do me a kindness, my daughter? Will you let me show you my work?'
  The sun had gone down, but the Abbess led the way with a lantern down corridor after corridor. Doña Clara saw the old and the young, the sick and the blind, but most of all she saw the tired, bright old woman who was leading her. The Abbess would stop in a passage way and say suddenly: 'I can't help thinking that something could be done for the deaf-and-dumb. It seems to me that some patient person could... could study out a language for them. You know there are hundreds and hundreds in Peru. Do you remember whether anyone in Spain has found a way for them? Well, some day they will.' Or a little later: 'Do you know, I keep thinking that something can be done for the insane. I am old, you know, and I cannot go where these things are talked about, but I watch them sometimes and it seems to me... In Spain, now, they are gentle with them? It seems to me that there is a secret about it, just hidden from us, just around the corner. Some day back in Spain, if you hear of anything that would help us, you will write me a letter... if you are not too busy?'
  At last, after Doña Clara had seen even the kitchens, the Abbess said: 'Now will you excuse me, for I must go into the room of the very sick and say a few words for them to think about when they cannot sleep? I will not ask you to come with me there, for you are not accustomed to such – such sounds and things. And besides, I only talk to them as one talks to children.' She looked up at her with her modest rueful smile. Suddenly she disappeared a moment to return with one of her helpers, one who had likewise been involved in the affair of the bridge, and who had formerly been an actress. 'She is leaving me,' said the Abbess, 'for some work across the city, and when I have spoken here I must leave you both, for the flour-broker will not wait for me any longer, and our argument will take a long time.'
  But Doña Clara stood in the door as the Abbess talked to them, the lamp placed on the floor beside her. Madre María stood with her back against a post; the sick lay in rows gazing at the ceiling and trying to hold their breaths. She talked that night of all those out in the dark (she was thinking of Esteban alone, she was thinking of Pepita alone) who had no one to turn to, for whom the world perhaps was more than difficult, without meaning. And those who lay in their beds there felt that they were within a wall that the Abbess had built for them; within all was light and warmth, and without was the darkness they would not exchange even for a relief from pain and from dying. But even while she was talking, other thoughts were passing in the back of her mind. 'Even now,' she thought, 'almost no one remembers Esteban and Pepita but myself. Camila alone remembers her Uncle Pio and her son; this woman, her mother. But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.The tall, rather languorous beauty entered the room.