conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled The Sin Eater about University, Jacques, Orleans with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jacques S. the author was born and raised in New Orleans. He studied writing at Cornell University, and obtained an MFA from University of Montana. He graduated from Tulane Medical School in 1998.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Captain, Britain's, Wales with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Sin Eater'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first two paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Sin Eater
  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
  Benedict Doyle had always known that if he ever entered the house that had belonged to his great-grandfather, the ghost that had shadowed most of his own life would be waiting for him. If it had been possible to avoid coming to the house today, he would have done so – in fact he would have travelled to the other side of the planet if he could have managed it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was a remarkable story. As it unfolded, in Benedict's rather hesitant words, Michael thought one of the really remarkable things was the logical, sequential nature of it. Declan Doyle and Colm Rourke's childhood – their youthful infatuation with the red-headed Romilly as they grew up; the appalling incident with the renegade priest in the old watchtower – could Benedict really have dredged all that out of his subconscious? Could anyone? Michael reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about the subconscious mind. He reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about Benedict Doyle, either.
  As he listened carefully, occasionally making a note of a name or a place, he thought: but there's the chess set. Nell found that single piece – the king – and Owen found a reference to it, or to something that looked like it. And Eithne, all those years ago, had believed it was deeply evil.
  When Benedict reached the part about Nicholas Sheehan's death, he faltered, and seemed to find it difficult to go on. He accepted Michael's offer of coffee, and drank it gratefully, then resumed his story. This time Michael found himself pulled deeper into the world of Colm Rourke and Declan Doyle, and into the Ireland of the late nineteenth century, and he found it an unexpectedly attractive world. Benedict's voice was more assured now, soft and measured, with some of the consonants slightly blurred. Nice, thought Michael. The room was very still. Wilberforce was snoozing on his favourite window sill, and strong winter sunshine slanted in. A fly, fooled by the warmth into thinking it was spring, buzzed lazily against the window.
  Benedict ended his story with Romilly's death in London's East End, and with Colm vanishing into the rain-drenched London streets, Declan following. He sat back, looking drained and exhausted, and reached for the coffee jug again.
  He thought there was a slight pause before Benedict answered, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he said, 'No. Nothing. There were a few boxes I didn't open, but I think they were all household stuff – glassware and china. The things Nell was going to look at.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Benedict picked his way through the rubble and the charred debris. It was just possible to see the outline of the room that had once existed. There were even fragments of furniture that had survived the fire – he could see a small chest with a carved lid, several chairs, even a few strings of fabric that must have been curtains or rugs. The hearth was filled with grass and birds' nests and the tiny skeletons of birds themselves, but above it still hung an oval mirror, the frame black with age, the surface so smeared it gave no light and no reflection.
  Benedict took the chess figure from his pocket. He had the fleeting impression that it resisted him, but he took a deep breath, and flung it hard against the stone fireplace. It described an arc through the dimness, and there was a moment when it reflected eerily in the old mirror. The shadows stirred briefly, and for the space of two heartbeats he thought shapes formed on the stones – the silhouettes of prancing horses, marching warriors, imperious figures who wore crowns or mitres...
  Then the illusion vanished, and there was a small splintering sound, like frost icicles cracking. He saw the chess figure fracture against the stones. Tiny glinting chips flew out – some caught the silvering moonlight. The small sounds died away and the shadows were quiescent again.
  But nothing moved within the ruined room and Benedict drew in a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It's all right, he thought. He's gone. As he crossed to the door, something seemed to shiver within the tarnished mirror, and he turned, his heart skipping a beat. But there was nothing there, of course.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was just possible to see the outline of the room that had once existed. There were even fragments of furniture that had survived the fire – he could see a small chest with a carved lid, several chairs, even a few strings of fabric that must have been curtains or rugs. The hearth was filled with grass and birds' nests and the tiny skeletons of birds themselves, but above it still hung an oval mirror, the frame black with age, the surface so smeared it gave no light and no reflection.
  Benedict took the chess figure from his pocket. He had the fleeting impression that it resisted him, but he took a deep breath, and flung it hard against the stone fireplace. It described an arc through the dimness, and there was a moment when it reflected eerily in the old mirror. The shadows stirred briefly, and for the space of two heartbeats he thought shapes formed on the stones – the silhouettes of prancing horses, marching warriors, imperious figures who wore crowns or mitres...
  Then the illusion vanished, and there was a small splintering sound, like frost icicles cracking. He saw the chess figure fracture against the stones. Tiny glinting chips flew out – some caught the silvering moonlight. The small sounds died away and the shadows were quiescent again.
  But nothing moved within the ruined room and Benedict drew in a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It's all right, he thought. He's gone. As he crossed to the door, something seemed to shiver within the tarnished mirror, and he turned, his heart skipping a beat. But there was nothing there, of course.