conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Newsweek with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Bit on the Side'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Bit on the Side
  He'd told her about the photographs he was ashamed of because she didn't matter; without resentment she realized that. And witnessing her excursion into foolishness, he had not mattered either.
  They did not shake hands or remark in any way upon the evening they'd spent together, but when they parted there was a modest surprise: that they'd made use of one another was a dignity compared with what should have been. That feeling was still there while they waited on two different platforms and while their trains arrived and drew away again. It lingered while they were carried through the flickering dark, as intimate as a pleasure shared.
  He hadn't meant to break his journey but there was time because he was early, so Graillis made a detour, returning to a house he hadn't visited for twenty-three years. A few miles out on the Old Fort road, devoured by rust, the entrance gates had sagged into undergrowth. The avenue was short, twisting off to the left, the house itself lost behind a line of willows.
  When the woman who'd been left a widow in it had sold up and gone to Dublin, a farmer acquired the place for its mantelpieces and the lead of its roof. He hadn't ever lived there, but his car had been drawn up on the gravel when the house was first empty and Graillis had gone back, just once. Since then there'd been talk of everything falling into disrepair, not that there hadn't been signs of this before, the paint of the windows flaking, the garden neglected. The woman on her own hadn't bothered much; although it had never otherwise been his nature to do so, her husband had seen to everything.
  Graillis didn't get out of his car, instead turned it slowly on the grass that had begun to grow through the gravel. He drove away, cautious on the pot-holed surface of the avenue, then slowed by the bends of a narrow side-road. A further mile on, a signpost guided him to the town he had chosen for his afternoon's business. An hour's drive from the town he lived in himself, it was more suitable for his purpose because he wasn't known there.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Across the table, all that was in Mr Bouverie's face, as so much had been when he gave the man a name and later when he said he minded. It was there behind the spectacles, in the tired skin touched with two crimson wine-blurs above the cheekbones. They shared it, yet they did not. Their sharing was a comfort for him, yet the comfort was as false as his wife's voice on the stairs.
  A frown began to knit Mr Dakin's forehead. Jason coughed and touched his face with a handkerchief, then folded it into his top pocket and began again about the function he had attended, referring to a commercial prospect he had advanced. His father nodded, thankfully diverted. Mrs Dakin tidied the surface up, murmuring to Mr Bouverie that probably he'd never guess she'd been shy herself at Rose's age.
  Mrs Bouverie clung to her lover, saying no this couldn't be the last time, sobbing over him, noisily exclaiming that something better was their due. But Mr Azam only shook his head. He was not a man to cause a wife who had borne his children to suffer. 'We have our dignity, you and I,' he said. 'We have been given this much.' Mr Azam drew on his green shirt, and brushed his hair with a hairbrush on the dressing-table, and saw that the lipstick smears were gone. 'I saw the pupil once,' he said, but the woman he spoke to had turned her face to the wall.
  Mrs Dakin poured more coffee. She spoke of names, how it had struck her this afternoon that names can inspire the quality they suggest. She described a Prudence she had known when she was Rose's age, and a Verity. 'Remember Ernest Calavor?' she prompted Mr Dakin, and he said yes indeed. Bitter chocolates were passed round in a slim red box. When she'd refused one Rose offered it across the table to Mr Bouverie.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She listened while again he said he loved her, and watched while he reached out for the briefcase she had so often wanted to replace and yet could not. She smiled a little, standing up to go.
  Outside, drinkers had congregated on the pavement, catching the last of the sun. They walked through them, her coat over his arm, picked up from where she'd draped it on the back of her chair. He held it for her, and waited while she buttoned it and casually tied the belt.
  In the plate-glass of a department-store window their reflection was arrested while they embraced. They did not see that image recording for an instant a stylishness they would not have claimed as theirs, or guessed that, in their love affair, they had possessed. Unspoken, understood, their rules of love had not been broken in the distress of ending what was not ended and never would be. Nothing of love had been destroyed today: they took that with them as they drew apart and walked away from one another, unaware that the future was less bleak than now it seemed, that in it there still would be the delicacy of their reticence, and they themselves as love had made them for a while.