conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Lewis, Dearborn's, He's with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Seven Dead Pirates'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Seven Dead Pirates
  Lewis watched, his panic giving way to sadness. "You could get another teaching job. In a college. Right?"
  Lewis left. He wandered into the parlor and settled into a rocking chair. Rocking jerkily, desperate to understand, he began to re-live his morning—every terrifying moment.
  The more he thought about it, the more he saw it as an awful trick. It was like sending him into a cage full of tigers. Lewis could hardly believe his own relative would do such a thing.
  That night, Lewis slept on a pullout couch in the tiny room beside his parents. The corners were crammed with boxes, and the air had a sour smell that made him breathe through his mouth. A single small window faced the driveway, with a view of the family car. Instead of crashing waves, he heard his mother's voice, complaining through the wall.
  Lewis rammed his head into his pillow. But his parents' voices continued... mumble... electricity... mumble... toilets.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: As for Lewis's father... well, Lewis was astounded. As the class straggled up the back stairs, he caught up and whispered, "Dad! How do you know all this stuff?"
  On the second floor, they moved room by room down the hall. Ms. Forsley kept letting out little cries of delight. "Oh my goodness, will you look at this? A coal oil lamp. Must be a hundred years old. And—oh!—look at this commode."
  It was the air. It had that unnaturally sharp feeling of coolness. And the fishy odor was strong. But most of all, Lewis realized, he could just... tell.
  And that's all Lewis heard because, in the corner of his eye, he spotted the evidence he'd been looking for. One of the lace curtains was moving. Slowly it swelled out, larger and larger, into a shape that was impossible not to recognize. Barnaby Bellows!
  Lewis blinked a couple of times, thinking hard. In three quick steps, he was at the middle window. He pulled it open, allowing the wind to come in. If the pirates were going to make the curtains bulge, he could at least provide an explanation.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Being a first reader of a novel manuscript can be a thankless task, so let me express my deepest appreciation for the comments of Deborah Hodge, Ellen McGinn, Norma Charles and Maurice Verkaar. Other writing pals who offered feedback and wisdom include Margriet Ruurs, Beryl Young, Susin Nielsen, Nan Gregory, Ellen Schwartz, Berny Lucas, Ainslie Manson, Kathie Shoemaker, Andrea Spalding and Sheryl McFarlane.
  How lucky can a gal get to have friends with lovely island homes who share them generously as writing retreats for a nautical tale? My heartfelt gratitude to Ellen McGinn, Susin Nielsen, Ainslie Manson and Margriet Ruurs.
  I am lucky again to have a so-smart, so-passionate agent in Hilary McMahon. And lucky yet again with the amazing Tara Walker—editor, pal and sometimes even sailing advisor! Thank you, and thanks to copyeditor Jennifer Stokes, proofreader Shana Hayes and to the Tundra / Penguin Random House team—Terri Nimmo, Pamela Osti and Sylvia Chan.