conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Cond's, Bront, Set with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Windward Heights'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Windward Heights
  Des Antilles, nous sommes la phalange Du grand Parti de tous les travailleurs Qui vont bientot retirer de la fange
  Consequently, after only one year of teaching, ninety-five per cent of Cathy's pupils received scholarships and six fishermen's children were admitted to the lycée Camot in La Pointe.
  He was a good foot taller than she was. So she had to raise her head to figure out his face in the deep shadow of his bakoua hat.
  She felt he was poking fun at her and replied on the defensive: "That was for fun. The carnival is an amusement."
  She looked out at the languid sea which, under a dull sky, was turning grey and sombre, like the young man in front of her.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I prefer the bad weather days when it squalls, when the waves rise up to soak the dome of the sky, when a black bar shuts out the horizon and you can see neither Terre-de-Bas nor Terre-de-Haut, the islands of Les Saintes, and even less Dominica, usually lying close by on the other side of the channel. But I also like those days when, lapping over the sandbanks, the water takes on the color of hope and the sand sparkles white under the sun like the teeth of a handsome black woman.
  Maman has gone where we'll all go one day or another, a few hours after I was born. Yet I didn't grieve as a small boy because I had my papa.
  My father was a master seiner. His family, who supplied the fish for the Murats' table, had never really known slav­ery, so to speak. They were a proud and upstanding race.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' First-Born ignored the children, cautiously entrenched behind the fence, who yelled out on seeing him: "Mi guiab'là dero, kayiman!"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No visitor crossed the threshold of l'Engoulvent. Except for Irmine. Every Saturday morning, the day had scarcely time to slip on its light when she climbed down from her tilbury. The first few times she did not come alone. She had Fréda or Cassandre, when she was home from school, accompany her. The sulky looks of disdain the two girls cast around them indicated that they had not come of their own free will. Soon, under one pretext or another, their visits were few and far between and then stopped altogether. After having handed Graziella the baskets lovingly filled with all sorts of victuals by Hosannah, Irmine swooped down on Anthuria in order to examine her every aspect. She sharply criticized the way First-Born and Graziella were looking after her. Were they powdering her with moussache flour from cassava to give her a lovely skin? Were they smoothing her hair with palma-christi oil? When she finished her inspection, she headed for the graveyard. She spent hours and hours there, without drinking or eating, as if her body no longer counted, praying, crying, daydreaming, planting lilies or trumpet flowers in pots, changing the water in the flower vases, scraping the wax with the point of a knife, fixing the candles in their holders and rethreading the pearls on the crosses and wreaths. All this time she spoke out loud and rambled on monotonously to an invisible listener about the routine of her days.
  First-Born never accompanied his mother to the graveyard. Once, when she wanted to take the child there, he had gone into a fit of rage. It was as if something there frightened him. The letters intertwined in stone—cathy de linsseuil—razyé—had given him the proof he had been looking for. So the bad-mouthers hadn't just bad-mouthed. And the bad-talkers hadn't just bad-talked. He had guessed rightly. This reunion in death proved it: Cathy de Linsseuil and Razyé had loved each other. First-Born had once been furious at what the power of money and the vanity of women could do, and time and again approved his father's vengeance. Oh yes, he had been right to put Guadeloupe to fire and the sword. Then one night, while he was listening to Anthuria sleep, with the window open on a sullen crescent moon, a thought had slipped into his heart. Razyé—Cathy de Linsseuil. Cathy de Linsseuil—Razyé. Who would ever know the truth behind this sombre love story? Who would know the fruit it had borne?
  Ever since that day, questions and suspicions had begun to torment him. Thank God his Cathy was no longer on this earth to share his doubts and dread. She could lie in ignorance.
  Because of this apprehension that was gnawing at his heart, First-Born no longer took care of himself and his smell trailed behind him like the smoke from a sugarcane train. His forehead was half-hidden by a fringe of greasy hair. His beard grew picky-haired around his mouth. He dressed sloppily in drab, worn-out clothes. Those who had known Razyé when he was Razyé shook their heads, sighing. What a come-down! He who said "Like father, like son" didn't know what he was saying. Boys are sent to shame the memory of their fathers. First-Born ignored the children, cautiously entrenched behind the fence, who yelled out on seeing him: "Mi guiab'là dero, kayiman!"