conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Nmirovsky, Suite, Franaise with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Fire in the Blood'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first paragraph for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Fire in the Blood
  Ilstan stood. He'd been waiting all morning for Ganrahast to return, to tell him that he wanted an explanation for why he'd been taken off Raedra's guard, to tell him about his fears for her safety, about the tiefling, and perhaps about the strange voice. He had come here most mornings in the last tenday, determined to finally come clean. But every time he had fled from the tower, overwhelmed by a pain in his head and the voice of an old man muttering in his thoughts.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He kissed her softly—the way, he thought, he should have kissed her in the storeroom, and it occurred to him, as he drew her close, that he might still owe her an apology for taking advantage of the circumstances so abruptly.
  But as slow as he tried to stay, she matched him, urged him on. There was much more he needed to say to her, needed to ask her, needed to hear from her—but not a god in the Heavens or the Hells could have reasonably asked Dahl to think straight when she held him like that.
  She pulled away, held his face in her hands. "This is so dangerous," she murmured. "And complicated. It's always going to be complicated."
  The color of Farideh's eyes shifted—she was looking into his. She bit her lip. "Very," she said. "But we have to be in the circle—we can't risk it. Come here."
  And the world might or might not have been ending, but for Dahl Peredur it suddenly felt as if it had at least turned the right way around.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Lorcan narrowed his eyes. "Sairché, don't pretend to be clever. Of course he does. Why would he ignore his Chosen?"
  Sairché stumbled at that—the kind of question the devils were loath to dig into, the kind of question that might draw the attention of Asmodeus. "Why do you suppose," her brave little cambion said, "that he made her one of his Chosen?"
  Bryseis Kakistos considered the cambion, the near image of his sire, and considered too, the dearth of descendants, the need for a solid form.
  ILSTAN NYARIL EMERGED from the sewers to the north of the city, still limping and wounded but sane. For the moment: The intermittent murmurs of the Lord of Spells were eating away at the clarity that last battle had bought him. The magic of the Weave was beginning to pull him in again. He would have to find others—other spellcasters—whose magic he could augment, whose spells he could improve with the blessings of Azuth.
  You have to kill her, he told himself. Even if it made him squeamish—she might seem kind and safe and certain. But there was no escaping that she had been Chosen by the god who'd murdered Azuth, the god who no doubt kept him trapped. That she held the key to his release and return. That she had to die for Azuth to live, for Ilstan to be exonerated and cured of this building madness.