conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about York, Yarrow, Press with the genre: Humor & Entertainment, Humor?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'The Locusts Have No King'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Locusts Have No King
  This served to release pent-up indignation and break down his discretion in one instant, for he pounded his fists on the quaking coffee table.
  Something about the glint in Strafford's eye as he regarded him made Frederick distinctly uneasy, and the word of a new "project" as Strafford called the fancy sideline ventures into which he sometimes entered, filled him with foreboding. He was further dismayed by the sound of a reflective whistle emanating from Strafford's lips, a cheery sign that ideas of an ominous nature were bubbling within.
  Frederick looked at Strafford incredulously. The gentleman sat biting the end of a Beckley cigar with as much gusto as if it had been Beckley's ear, bald head thrown back, face beaming triumphantly at him.
  There was no use in commenting on this typically Strafford coup. When Strafford continued that he had been hung by his regard for prestige all his life and was going in from now on for Sure Things, Frederick demurred that no prestige plus a proven financial flop might not be classified as Sure Thing, Strafford brushed the objection aside as sheer modesty. Frederick didn't realize how much confidence Strafford had in him. All you needed to put the thing over was brains, and surely Frederick would admit his and Strafford's brains were superior to Beckley's.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The girl's futile manipulation of the rug stopped. She appeared to ponder for a moment then she shook her head with a gentle smile.
  She might be thirty or she might be much older, he couldn't tell. She was not pretty and her figure was stolidly matronly though her legs were long and shapely. Allan was mentally reproaching Lyle for permitting this intruder on his privacy but then it struck him that for the first time in years something was happening to him and only to him. For Lyle and other free people days were filled with dozens of little adventures, little trivial brushes with tragedy or romance, exchanges with strangers, fleeting glimpses of unknown worlds. But his day held no surprises, his hours and even his friends were arranged carefully beforehand. Nothing as remarkable as a strange Negress addressing him on the roof had occurred to him in ages and Allen felt a sudden excitement out of all proportion to the episode.
  There was nothing to explain about tidying the room, nothing more than the usual admonitions about leaving papers as they were and taking care of breakables. Mrs. Bender, in fact, did not appear to listen as he began to tell her, but seated herself on a leather hassock before him, her soft opaque eyes fixed on him with her vaguely knowing smile. He could not disguise his surprise when she lit a cigarette, but she misconstrued the cause and said hastily, "No, I didn't take yours. I always carry my own cigarettes, no need to worry about that."
  She had finished the room, evidently, but made no move to go. Allan wondered uncertainly, if she was waiting to be paid or if she was under the delusion she was to act as a companion.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Frederick was idly fiddling with the bedside radio and there was a sputtering of words and confused noises.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Frederick nodded impatiently. The car shot upward and he got off on the third floor in the Gaynor foyer. He rang the bell but there was no answer. After a few more attempts he rapped on it with his knuckles and called her name.
  The door opened and he saw Lyle, pale and defiant in a dark gray trailing negligee, eyes unsmiling, shadowed with purple from headache, weeping, or illness. They stood looking at each other, silently. Frederick tried to speak but only his lips moved and besides there was nothing to say. Slowly she opened the door wider and he took a step inside. She seemed smaller or it might be that he had never seen her helpless and bewildered before. It was like taking a child in his arms.
  They had said all these things to each other a thousand times before. They had told each other over and over of the loneliness they had known until they met; they had confided often the half-life inadequacy of all experiences, joys or triumphs away from each other, the way nothing in their days was complete until they had told it to each other; they had marvelled for years that all pain vanished when they were in each other's arms, and they had told each other the little remembered woes of childhood for the other to console. Yet all Sunday morning they said these things again, listening eagerly even with amazement.
  Lyle, combing her hair at the vanity table, smiled at him in the mirror. She could bear anything, she thought. There was never too much that a person could give or endure in love. Frederick was idly fiddling with the bedside radio and there was a sputtering of words and confused noises.