conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for a story with the title 'Honey for the Bears'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Honey for the Bears
  Outside the front door a man in a cap stopped, looked round in a burly way, then thrust a papiros with a twisted stem into his mouth. He used up five bad Russian matches to get it alight, and Paul watched him cautiously. He was short all right, also neckless. He stood there quite patiently, looking into the passing crowds with pale eyes, occasionally stamping his feet as though it were cold. That would undeniably be Nikolaev. Now that the moment had come Paul found himself paralysed; he sat on his two cases huddled up, as before a fire with the knowledge that bone-cutting cold awaits outside. He waited till Nikolaev had finished his cigarette and thrown the crushed-up cardboard stem to the pavement. Then he slowly walked out, a case in each hand.
  He and Nikolaev looked at each other in a slack hopeless sort of way. Then Nikolaev said, 'Mr Gussey?'
  But Nikolaev was impatient. He took a thick envelope from the side-pocket of his old jacket, which was the colour of rather mouldy brown bread. 'Here,' he said, 'is...' He shut his eyes tight; his lips computed rapidly; the higher numbers of a foreign language are always the hardest thing to learn. '... Is tree tousand, is tree tousand...' He cursed; he couldn't manage the other numerals.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And so now there's Sonya—Dr Lazurkina, if that's how you spell it, to you. But it's not just Sonya as a person, as an individual that is, but what lies behind Sonya, and all that's so very solid and real. And I don't mean the Soviet System and the Communist Party, for I feel about Communism much as I was always made to feel, except that I don't see that systems matter much to ordinary little people like me. It's only the boys and girls at the top, I'd say. Everybody I've met seems happy enough. I don't see anybody trembling in Deadly Fear. What I feel about Communism really I guess is that I'm sorry for all the politicians and tycoons and teachers and writers in the West who feel sorry for themselves when they think of themselves having to live in a Communist State. But I'm not clever enough to ever have to worry about that. No, what I mean when I say what lies behind Sonya is something as simple as Love, because Love is about the only thing these people have had to keep them going through all their terrible historical changes, famines and sieges and purges and scorched earth and terrible poverty. And I suppose Love has nearly disappeared in England and the United States of America because there are so many easier substitutes for it.
  What has happened is that Sonya is being transferred, which is what she wanted, to this place called Rostov, which is on the Northern Shore of the Sea of Azov, as I've seen from a map. That's more her part of the world, as her mother lives in a place called Simferopol, or near there, which is in the Crimea. I'm still to be under her medical supervision, though really I feel fine now though very very tired, and so we're going down there together, the idea being that she's taking her fortnight's leave which is due to her from last year, so we can get off straight away, which is by the evening plane. I asked about money but she says I'm under the State Medical Service. Then I said I couldn't be under the State Medical Service for everything, but she says that when I've had a Convalescence I can do some lecturing, if I wish. Lecturing in English, that is, on Life in the West. But she says I'm not to think too far ahead into the future but to get well first. I feel quite well, as I say, though very tired, but she knows best, being a doctor. One thing she said I could do was to apply for Political Asylum, but I'm not too sure what that means.
  I would like to have some money of my own, though, and you'll be the first to say I'm entitled to it, as it was my little bit of capital that started you in the shop. In the meantime you could let me have some of the money you've gotten out of selling the dresses, say about half the total amount. The way Sandra let me down I guess that's only my rightful due. Sonya suggests you pay any monies into her account, which is quite easy to do. There's the Gosbank in Leningrad and you know Sonya's name and the hospital here, and it will catch up with her and then with me fairly quickly.
  I never approved of having both of us on the one passport, so things would be very awkward if I hadn't kept my US passport. This is out of date, as you know, but I guess the US Consulate or whatever it is can put that right for me. Anyway I have Sonya to look after me and there won't be any trouble about documents. When I decide to come back to England I'll let you know. But I'm not giving you any addresses now because I don't want you to have any part of this decision one way or the other.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' 'Whatever it is,' agreed Paul.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Zverkov was squinting at the shop-signs in Finnish and Swedish. The Roman alphabet reigned here; it seemed to make Zverkov uneasy, an outsider, one whose family had never belonged to the greatest club of all time, the Roman Empire, and it was too late now. 'A strange language,' he said. 'Finnish. A sentence has always stayed in my mind, and I do not know who taught it me or why I should wish to remember it. Talvi on tullut pitkine öinensä. That means, "The winter has come with its long nights." '
  Paul recognized the music. It was the last movement of the Fifth Symphony of Sibelius. He suddenly felt drunkenly confident: the Finnish bottled ale was not so mild after all. 'You've sent me away nearly naked,' he said. 'Toothless, wifeless—ah, never mind. I don't even know what I am any more—sexually, I mean. Still, Shakespeare's sexual orientation is far from clear. And then there was Socrates. I'm going back to an antique-shop, but somebody's got to conserve the good of the past, before your Americanism and America's Russianism make plastic of the world. There's a lot of summer in front of me yet. Listen to that music of a little country.' The movement had arrived at the recapitulation of the swinging heavy horn-figure in thirds, a noble tune singing over it. 'You'll learn about freedom from us yet,' he said, and felt a doubt as soon as he'd said it.
  The movement came to an end: sharp chords for the entire orchestra set in wide spaces of silence. 'Whatever it is,' agreed Paul.