conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Fiction, Author, Readers with the genre: Christian Books & Bibles, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Light in the Window'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first two paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Light in the Window
  She gazed back at him. "Oh, soggy mittens, chocolate without nuts, and a man who can't find it in himself to hold your hand when it's sticking right out there in plain view."
  Edith Mallory's smoldering cigarette never entered his mind. He thought only of the soft green walls, the intimate, no-smoking corner table he'd admired, the smiling maitre d', and the menu that, apart from the elk, bison, and reindeer, offered fresh mountain trout.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs. End with the sentence '
  The rector could feel Esther, who had eyes like a hawk, boring a hole in him all the way to where he stood with Uncle Billy.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Esther was back on the porch steps. If she didn't have laryngitis from the long day's events, it would be a miracle.
  Heads turned. People shrugged. Clearly, no one had ever seen such a thing. Some didn't want to. A few didn't care one way or the other.
  The crowd groaned. Some people walked away. Two senior citizens went to sleep sitting up in folding chairs near the lilac bushes.
  A total stranger stepped forward. As everyone could plainly see, it was a tourist. He was wearing sunglasses, a navy blazer over khakis, and no socks with his loafers.
  The rector could feel Esther, who had eyes like a hawk, boring a hole in him all the way to where he stood with Uncle Billy.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Clothes tossed on an unmade bed, drawers pulled out, closet doors standing open, clothing on the floor, an exercise mat with a bottle of water beside it.
  He shrugged. 'This is the way a lot of people's bedrooms look.' Dooley's room in the early days of living at the rectory, for instance.
  He looked around again, paying attention. Message light blinking on a phone by the bed, windows raised a few inches, empty hangers on a closet door pull. They walked into the bathroom. Windows open a couple of inches. Drops of moisture on the glass door of the shower. A towel on the floor.
  He stooped and felt the towel—damp—then looked out to the rear lawn. That would be the studio, surrounded by a fairly ambitious garden with an open potting shed. Beyond, a dense thicket of rhododendron and oaks.
  How did they manage to everlastingly insinuate themselves into other people's business, Ireland being a prime example?