conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Frankie, Hampshire, Rowley with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Arsonist'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Arsonist
  And this feeling held when he stopped in at Snell's for the papers on the way to the office. When he talked to Adrian or Lucy or Harlan or someone also stopping by.
  Nothing important, usually. "How's it going?" "Got anything left to write about these days?" It was the same, the way it had always been, but it had changed. Something had changed it for him, and he didn't know what it was. Perhaps the strange relief he felt once the summer people left this year. Or maybe it was the end of the fires. Or the loss of Frankie, who had kept him so much in her orbit.
  In all of it, Tink seemed, more than anything, lost. A lost, beautiful boy who might or might not have done any of it. Sometimes, looking at Tink, Bud thought that Tink himself—so blank, so helpless-looking—might not know for sure anymore whether or not he'd set the fires. Could that be?
  The drives back and forth to Greenwood were themselves a form of consolation. By now the leaves had finally finished falling, and the woods had opened up to reveal themselves—the bare trunks, the lean, empty branches, everything colorless except for the dark green of the pines here and there and the slowly fading brightness of the leaves that lay heaped over everything. Sometimes, coming around a corner on the familiar roads, Bud would pull over to the shoulder and stop to look at what had always been there but was unseen, unseeable, till now. An old farmhouse revealed on the hill opposite, its smoke curling yellow-gray out of its stone kitchen chimney. A faded red barn visible through the bending white stalks of a naked birch grove. The river, curving where he'd forgotten it was, glinting cold and black behind the bare limbs. These sights did something to him, and he wished he'd made more of all of this with Frankie, that he'd tried to make her see and feel the natural world around them as he was seeing it now. He wished that he'd wooed her with it.
  But slowly through these weeks, as he felt himself giving over again to what seemed fine to him here, he also felt himself letting go of the idea of Frankie just a little, and that made him believe that eventually he'd be able to think of her more easily. Perhaps even as his last, passionate resistance to everything that compelled him here.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me another paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But slowly through these weeks, as he felt himself giving over again to what seemed fine to him here, he also felt himself letting go of the idea of Frankie just a little, and that made him believe that eventually he'd be able to think of her more easily. Perhaps even as his last, passionate resistance to everything that compelled him here.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Which didn't alter his answer when she knocked on his door one night in mid-November. And wouldn't have altered it, even if he'd known it all, everything that would come. Even if he'd foreseen the restlessness that would sweep her from time to time, that would make her miserable in her life in Pomeroy, that would call her away over and over. Away to New York, for months of work on projects that made her feel alive again, she said to Bud on her return. Away once to Africa for almost a year, a year that made her know one more time that she couldn't stay there but that reminded her of how much she wanted to.
  He would have answered the same way even if he'd known the sense that all this would breed in him over the years, a sense of such tentativeness in his approach to her that the moments between them that seemed natural and glad and easy became rarer, more and more painfully dear.
  When, after their long embrace, he says into her ear, into her hair, as he rocks her from side to side, "God, it's you, Frankie. It's exactly you." When she leans her head back to look at him, her whole face a question for him to answer.