conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first paragraph for a book with the title 'The Way Some People Die'
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Way Some People Die
  I parked in front of the number I had been given and leaned sideways in the seat to have a look at the house. The numerals, 1348, were made of rusted metal and tacked diagonally across one of the round porch pillars. A showcard above, printed black on white, offered ROOMS FOR TOURISTS. There were several rattan chairs and a faded green glider on the porch, which covered the width of the house. A second-story porch, with more rattan, was surrounded by a wooden railing that looked unsafe. The third story had Gothic-looking towers at each corner, fake battlements that time had taken and made ridiculous. The roller blinds were low over the windows on all three levels, so they stared at me sleepy-eyed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Simmie got onto his knees. The blood was running free from a cut on his brow. He rose to his feet, swaying against the fence. The blood splashed his shirt.
  Mario cried out loudly, making no words. His muscles jerked iron-hard and broke my grip. His striking arm swung up again. Simmie flung himself over the fence. I pinned Mario against it and wrenched his metal knuckles off. His knee tried for my groin, and I had to stamp the instep of his other foot. He sat down against the fence and held the foot in both hands.
  The Negro woman I had seen the day before came around the corner of the building on the other side of the fence. She was the first of a line of Negro men and women who stood at the end of their row of hutches and watched us silently. One of the men had the black-taped stock of a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Simmie moved to his side and turned:
  The woman touched the bloody side of the boy's face, moaning. I looked around and saw that the faces were dense in the alley around my car. One of the fat rubber faces opened and called out:
  One of the bright-eyed girls followed the car to the sidewalk and hooked one arm over the door on Mario's side. "Wait!"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She followed me down the hallway: "They shan't know a thing about it. And you won't tell them, Mr. Archer. You believe that my daughter is innocent, even though you won't admit it."
  The colored fanlight over the door washed her mother in sorrowful purple. The tear-tracks resembled the marks of sparse rain on a dusty road.
  I looked back from the sidewalk. She was standing on the steps, using the brown paper package to shield her eyes from the cruel light. Her other hand rose in farewell, and dropped to her side.
  Has Tom Hillman run away from his exclusive reform school, or has he been kidnapped? Are his wealthy parents protecting him or their own guilty secrets? And why does every clue lead Lew Archer to an abandoned Hollywood hotel, where starlets and sailors once rubbed shoulders with two-bit grifters—and where the present clientele includes a brand-new corpse? The result is Macdonald at his most exciting, delivering 1,000-volt shocks to the nervous system while uncovering the venality and depravity at the heart of the case.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about opened, glared.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She followed me down the hallway: "They shan't know a thing about it. And you won't tell them, Mr. Archer. You believe that my daughter is innocent, even though you won't admit it. "
  The colored fanlight over the door washed her mother in sorrowful purple. She opened the door, and noon glared in on her face. The tear-tracks resembled the marks of sparse rain on a dusty road. 
  I looked back from the sidewalk. She was standing on the steps, using the brown paper package to shield her eyes from the cruel light. Her other hand rose in farewell, and dropped to her side. 
  Has Tom Hillman run away from his exclusive reform school, or has he been kidnapped? Are his wealthy parents protecting him or their own guilty secrets? And why does every clue lead Lew Archer to an abandoned Hollywood hotel, where starlets and sailors once rubbed shoulders with two-bit grifters—and where the present clientele includes a brand-new corpse? The result is Macdonald at his most exciting, delivering 1,000-volt shocks to the nervous system while uncovering the venality and depravity at the heart of the case.