conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about PhD, Maine with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Chalice'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled The Chalice about Louis, Keeler, M.D with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, Historical.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Louis Keeler, M.D. is a retired urologic surgeon. He and his wife have raised five children, all successful in various fields of endeavor. There are 16 grandchildren. The author loves to bowl, play golf and work in the garden. He has traveled extensively throughout the world. Writing this book has been an exciting and rewarding adventure.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Chalice
  The layout and history of the town are more or less as described, although small reinventions were necessary.
  And ultimate thanks to my brilliant wife and live-in editor, Carol, who helped shape the plot, curbed a few excesses and then spent many long days and nights transforming, page by page, what might have been a Ratners' chalice into the nearest we could get to an authentic Grail.
  My mother's only servant disappeared on the night we needed it least. The eve of the Queen's visit. And of Candlemas. Catherine Meadows had been a quiet maid. Efficient, demure and, more important, discreet. The first servant I'd let dust, or even enter, my library. Given the afternoon for herself, she'd left the house shortly before noon.
  Maybe, in some inner vessel of my being, I had the inkling of an approaching menace. Who can truly say? I've oft-times wished such occult portents were more clear and direct, but – nature's bitter irony – it's rarely been that way for me.
  A well-lit night – on the edge of a thaw, I felt, yet still hard as crystal. Hoar frost swelling the twigs and branches of our orchard as I walked out, without a lantern. Out towards the edge of the village and London town, calling first at a smoky old tavern, where I knew the man I sought spent an hour or so most evenings. But he was not amongst the drinkers this night, and hard-faced men were staring at me, so I slipped away and went further along the road to his cottage and found him there. 'Ah, now, as it happened, Dr John, she come to me midafternoon. About her gran, Goodwife Carter – took bad.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Both of us knowing with what pious delight a religious extremist would delve amongst ill-informed rumour.
  The real demons. Jack Simm had given up his shop in the city because of fears of persecution during Mary's reign by Bishop Bonner who was now – God help us all – my friend. 'Oh, and Meadows... he says he's heard as how you're building a temple to worship the moon?'
  It was over a month now since the incident of the effigy and not a word, so it seemed unlikely to be that. An old man had broken his leg not far from here just a fortnight ago and was not found until morning. Dead by then of the cold.
  No use hurrying, anyway; there'd be time for no more work this night. I'd need to help my mother prepare our house for the visit of the Queen... even though I knew the Queen would not enter it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Walking, Walking, stumbled.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Both of us knowing with what pious delight a religious extremist would delve amongst ill-informed rumour. 
  The real demons. Jack Simm had given up his shop in the city because of fears of persecution during Mary's reign by Bishop Bonner who was now – God help us all – my friend. 'Oh, and Meadows... he says he's heard as how you're building a temple to worship the moon?'
  It was over a month now since the incident of the effigy and not a word, so it seemed unlikely to be that. 
  Walking away, my left boot slid across a frozen wheel-rut, and I stumbled. An old man had broken his leg not far from here just a fortnight ago and was not found until morning. Dead by then of the cold. 
  No use hurrying, anyway; there'd be time for no more work this night. I'd need to help my mother prepare our house for the visit of the Queen... even though I knew the Queen would not enter it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No such accusations against my tad, but his Protestant's fall, under Queen Mary's purge, had been total. They took everything he owned, except for this house. By that time, I was almost famous in Europe, for my learning. In Paris, they'd stood on boards and crowded outside open windows to hear me lecture on Euclid. Famous men had come to consult me at Louvain. Whilst in England...
  In England, even living once again in my mother's house, I couldn't afford to build an observatory, nor pay more than a single servant full-time.
  The cold moon lit my wall betwixt the timbers. The cat purred. The scent of pastry still lay upon the air – my mother having laboured until close to midnight in the kitchen, baking and making what preparations she could in case the only surviving child of the late Harry should deign to cross our threshold with half an army in attendance. Me trying to help her but being sent away, in the end... for how could I welcome the Queen to Mortlake all wrinkle-eyed and slow from lack of rest?
  So, I slept and fell into the worst of my recurring dreams. My hands are tied behind me, my back is hard against the wood, my eyes are closed and I'm wondering when they'll do it. Listening for the crackle, waiting for the heat.
  And open my eyes to a fine blue sky over London, with all its spires. Thinking to float away into it. Thinking of some way to free my hands and looking down...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They took everything he owned, except for this house. By that time, I was almost famous in Europe, for my learning. In Paris, they'd stood on boards and crowded outside open windows to hear me lecture on Euclid. Famous men had come to consult me at Louvain. Whilst in England...
  In England, even living once again in my mother's house, I couldn't afford to build an observatory, nor pay more than a single servant full-time.
  The cold moon lit my wall betwixt the timbers. The cat purred. The scent of pastry still lay upon the air – my mother having laboured until close to midnight in the kitchen, baking and making what preparations she could in case the only surviving child of the late Harry should deign to cross our threshold with half an army in attendance. Me trying to help her but being sent away, in the end... for how could I welcome the Queen to Mortlake all wrinkle-eyed and slow from lack of rest?
  So, I slept and fell into the worst of my recurring dreams. My hands are tied behind me, my back is hard against the wood, my eyes are closed and I'm wondering when they'll do it. Listening for the crackle, waiting for the heat.
  And open my eyes to a fine blue sky over London, with all its spires. Thinking to float away into it. Thinking of some way to free my hands and looking down...