conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled The Last Honest Woman about York, Times-bestselling, Search with the genre: Romance, Contemporary.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is the number-one New York Times-bestselling author of more than 190 novels, including The Search, Black Hills, Tribute, High Noon, and many more. She is also the author of the bestselling futuristic suspense series written under the pen name J.D. Robb. the author has more than 400 million copies of her storys in print.
  						  	
  						    	--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Honest Woman
  Abby told herself to concentrate on that and not to think too deeply about what had happened the night before. What it had meant to Dylan and what it had meant to her were two different things. She had to be wise enough to understand that. But he'd given her something she'd never had from a man before: respect, affection, passion. She was still relishing it. Switching the radio on, she turned onto the main road.
  When Dylan came downstairs, he went straight for the coffee. He didn't usually wake up groggy, even after a sleepless night, but working through the night and lying awake in bed seemed to have different effects. He wasn't sure yet why he'd been so restless. Abby had slept beside him as peacefully as her children had slept in the other rooms.
  His body had been relaxed, even serene. He could tell himself that was pure physical relief. But his mind had been tense and active. What had happened between them hadn't been ordinary. Part of him wished it had been, while another—a part he hadn't explored in years—rejoiced that it hadn't. He wasn't a man who enjoyed contrasts within himself. Over and above those contradictions, there was the mystery of the woman who had slept beside him.
  He'd begun to dissect the opinion he'd had of her before they'd met and compare it to the feelings he had about her now. Nothing lined up. What did the woman in mink, laughing at the spin of the wheel, have to do with the woman who'd trembled in his arms? Were they both real—or were they both an act?
  His blood still curdled when he thought of what she'd told him. For the first time in his life, the urge to protect was stronger than any other. He knew better than to let his feelings color the facts, and he tried to be objective. If she had been physically and emotionally abused, why had she stayed? Chuck Rockwell had publicly thumbed his nose at his wedding vows, so a divorce would have been simple. But she'd stayed. He couldn't resolve the contradiction any more than he could resolve what was happening inside him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Honest Woman
  Abby told herself to concentrate on that and not to think too deeply about what had happened the night before. What it had meant to Dylan and what it had meant to her were two different things. She had to be wise enough to understand that. But he'd given her something she'd never had from a man before: respect, affection, passion. She was still relishing it. Switching the radio on, she turned onto the main road.
  When Dylan came downstairs, he went straight for the coffee. He didn't usually wake up groggy, even after a sleepless night, but working through the night and lying awake in bed seemed to have different effects. He wasn't sure yet why he'd been so restless. Abby had slept beside him as peacefully as her children had slept in the other rooms.
  His body had been relaxed, even serene. He could tell himself that was pure physical relief. But his mind had been tense and active. What had happened between them hadn't been ordinary. Part of him wished it had been, while another—a part he hadn't explored in years—rejoiced that it hadn't. He wasn't a man who enjoyed contrasts within himself. Over and above those contradictions, there was the mystery of the woman who had slept beside him.
  He'd begun to dissect the opinion he'd had of her before they'd met and compare it to the feelings he had about her now. Nothing lined up. What did the woman in mink, laughing at the spin of the wheel, have to do with the woman who'd trembled in his arms? Were they both real—or were they both an act?
  His blood still curdled when he thought of what she'd told him. For the first time in his life, the urge to protect was stronger than any other. He knew better than to let his feelings color the facts, and he tried to be objective. If she had been physically and emotionally abused, why had she stayed? Chuck Rockwell had publicly thumbed his nose at his wedding vows, so a divorce would have been simple. But she'd stayed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abby glanced around the land she'd fought so hard to keep. "Raising children and planting hay. Yes, I suppose it's what I do best."
  Maddy adjusted the stride of her horse to match her sisters'. "Do you remember that time in that little place just outside Memphis?"
  Remembering made Maddy chuckle. "On opening night I pretend I'm about to play in Mitzie's Place outside Memphis. I tell myself whatever happens can't be as bad."
  It no longer surprised her that she could indeed snuggle on the living room sofa and watch her sister on television. "Somehow I never thought you'd do TV again," Abby commented.
  Abby absorbed Maddy's question. She didn't have to tell either of her sisters that she was in love. They could feel it almost as strongly as she did. "In some ways. I'd planned to, well... I guess I'd planned to restructure the facts. That doesn't work with Dylan, because he knows just by looking at me whether or not I'm being up-front with him. So I have to tell him the truth."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abby glanced around the land she'd fought so hard to keep. "Raising children and planting hay. Yes, I suppose it's what I do best."
  Maddy adjusted the stride of her horse to match her sisters'. "Do you remember that time in that little place just outside Memphis?"
  Remembering made Maddy chuckle. "On opening night I pretend I'm about to play in Mitzie's Place outside Memphis. I tell myself whatever happens can't be as bad."
  It no longer surprised her that she could indeed snuggle on the living room sofa and watch her sister on television. "Somehow I never thought you'd do TV again," Abby commented.
  Abby absorbed Maddy's question. She didn't have to tell either of her sisters that she was in love. They could feel it almost as strongly as she did. "In some ways. I'd planned to, well... I guess I'd planned to restructure the facts. That doesn't work with Dylan, because he knows just by looking at me whether or not I'm being up-front with him. So I have to tell him the truth.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She rinsed and rinsed and rinsed, finally bracing her hands on the shower wall as her stomach began to churn in anticipation and not a little dread. When the water ran clear, she toweled off, wrapped a second towel around her hair.
  Women had altered their hair color for centuries, Elizabeth reminded herself. Using berries, herbs, roots. It was a... rite of passage, she decided.
  She stared at the girl with pale skin and wide green eyes, the girl with short, spiky raven black hair that framed her narrow, sharp-boned face. Lifting a hand, she scratched her fingers through it, feeling the texture, watching it move.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When the water ran clear, she toweled off, wrapped a second towel around her hair.
  Women had altered their hair color for centuries, Elizabeth reminded herself. Using berries, herbs, roots. It was a... rite of passage, she decided.
  She stared at the girl with pale skin and wide green eyes, the girl with short, spiky raven black hair that framed her narrow, sharp-boned face. Lifting a hand, she scratched her fingers through it, feeling the texture, watching it move.