conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for a book with the title 'Isle of the Dead'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Isle of the Dead
  He wondered at her confidence. He had a first name and he knew the connection between the mysterious Rachel and Angelico Vespucci. But that was all. He had no surname, no theatre. No country even. She could be anywhere on earth.
  After finishing his conversation with Louisa, Nino went back into the sitting room. Harold Greyly was still sleeping, his breathing drugged, his neck bent awkwardly over the back of his chair. Worried that he might choke if he vomited, Nino slid a cushion under his head and turned off all but a single lamp. Cautious, Nino glanced down the lane. It was empty. He locked the gate, walked back into the house with the spaniels, and bolted the front and back doors.
  Was this his home? Was this where he had been hiding out? Was he a member of the Greyly family? If so, was that why Harold Greyly had been so much on the defensive? Moving over to the desk under the library window, Nino searched the drawers, finding nothing more than stationery and bills. The centre drawer opened without resistance. Apparently there were no locks in Courtford Hall. Even feeling behind the desk, and beneath it, gave up no secrets.
  Moving back to the sitting room, Nino bent down towards the stupefied man and shook him awake. 'Have you got a safe?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about followed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Isle of the Dead
  He wondered at her confidence. He had a first name and he knew the connection between the mysterious Rachel and Angelico Vespucci. But that was all. He had no surname, no theatre. No country even. She could be anywhere on earth. 
  After finishing his conversation with Louisa, Nino went back into the sitting room. Harold Greyly was still sleeping, his breathing drugged, his neck bent awkwardly over the back of his chair. Worried that he might choke if he vomited, Nino slid a cushion under his head and turned off all but a single lamp. As the room darkened, the dogs woke and followed him out into the back garden. Cautious, Nino glanced down the lane. It was empty. He locked the gate, walked back into the house with the spaniels, and bolted the front and back doors. 
  Was this his home? Was this where he had been hiding out? Was he a member of the Greyly family? If so, was that why Harold Greyly had been so much on the defensive? Moving over to the desk under the library window, Nino searched the drawers, finding nothing more than stationery and bills. The centre drawer opened without resistance. Apparently there were no locks in Courtford Hall. Even feeling behind the desk, and beneath it, gave up no secrets. 
  Moving back to the sitting room, Nino bent down towards the stupefied man and shook him awake. 'Have you got a safe?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But Edward liked to think of himself as adaptable. Reaching for his laptop he went online. The BBC news was talking about him, but not as its top story. Fuck it, Edward thought. Come January the first they'd have him on top. He'd be front-page news then all right.
  She let him in, walking into the tiny sitting room and stoking up the fire. The snow had made the temperatures plunge and although she was warmly dressed she had also wrapped a scarf around her neck. It was dark red, fringed, making her skin translucent, her hands in mittens. Unlike Seraphina, she was tall and athletic, with striking good looks.
  Bewildered, she turned away. The fire was crackling – she could feel its warmth – but it was making no impact on the cold inside her.
  She was getting agitated, her mind wandering. Fear, cold and encroaching, was making its presence felt.
  She tossed back her head and focused. 'I went to university, where I read English. I learned Italian when I worked in Rome for a while. I was a nanny... Then I came back to London and entered the theatre. The Hamlet Theatre...' She was getting desperate. 'I can't remember! I can't remember how I heard about The Skin Hunter—'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I made them supper, watched them eat. The pig wheezed and snuffled about his food, laughed, told stories, sought to beguile again. And Titian, watching like a chicken does a fox, was mesmerised by him. They ate. I served them. They drank. I poured the wine. Outside the sea waited for its next drowning.
  Aretino was talking of some dancer, some new whore, and paused, his sharp eyes startled. His hands, those bloodied hands, clutched for his throat as though some bone was stuck there. Titian turned, reached for his friend, but Aretino was already falling, dead before he found the floor. He never saw me tamper with his food. He never saw me pass a plate to him unlike my master's own.
  The news went round Venice that Pietro Aretino was dead. Choked on his food. Died for his gluttony. A hundred victims revelled at his passing. Freed from his vicious pen, loosened from his lies and calumnies, out of reach of his thefts and plots and killings, the city is at peace. The Dog of Venice joins the Whore, and the Merchant also. The triumvirate of evil is now done.
  Outside the sea is still, the moon red as a watermelon in the heated night. Fogs that have plagued us for months melt in the warm air while torches flicker on the canals and on the tide. Venice sleeps on, the sweet sea curled like a blanket around her. The church bells sleep also, as do the water rats. Behind locked doors, couples turn to each other and cling; somewhere a mother holds a child against her heart; and as the hours turn through the beating of the night, a clock chimes in the breaking dawn. The baker has now woken, and the priest rises and bows his head towards the cross.
  Bellini, Giorgione, Titian and the Renaissance of Venetian Painting. Exhibition at the National Gallery of Art, Washington
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Exhibition at the National Gallery of Art, Washington. The pig wheezed and snuffled about his food, laughed, told stories, sought to beguile again. And Titian, watching like a chicken does a fox, was mesmerised by him. They ate. I served them. They drank. I poured the wine. Outside the sea waited for its next drowning.
  Aretino was talking of some dancer, some new whore, and paused, his sharp eyes startled. His hands, those bloodied hands, clutched for his throat as though some bone was stuck there. Titian turned, reached for his friend, but Aretino was already falling, dead before he found the floor. He never saw me tamper with his food. He never saw me pass a plate to him unlike my master's own.
  The news went round Venice that Pietro Aretino was dead. Choked on his food. Died for his gluttony. A hundred victims revelled at his passing. Freed from his vicious pen, loosened from his lies and calumnies, out of reach of his thefts and plots and killings, the city is at peace. The Dog of Venice joins the Whore, and the Merchant also. The triumvirate of evil is now done.
  Outside the sea is still, the moon red as a watermelon in the heated night. Fogs that have plagued us for months melt in the warm air while torches flicker on the canals and on the tide. Venice sleeps on, the sweet sea curled like a blanket around her. The church bells sleep also, as do the water rats. Behind locked doors, couples turn to each other and cling; somewhere a mother holds a child against her heart; and as the hours turn through the beating of the night, a clock chimes in the breaking dawn. The baker has now woken, and the priest rises and bows his head towards the cross.
  Bellini, Giorgione, Titian and the Renaissance of Venetian Painting.I made them supper, watched them eat.