conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Clarence, Wilmot, American with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'In the Beauty of the Lilies'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book. Start with the sentence 'In the Beauty of the Lilies
  It's been a mild winter so far but it's only February so anything can still happen'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In the Beauty of the Lilies
  It's been a mild winter so far but it's only February so anything can still happen. I have seen it snow a foot in March.
  Emily has been having a time with her leg and her breathing; an infirmity like that certainly adds to the bothers of old age, but she has never been a person to complain. It gives me pleasure to wait on her, after all the years she's waited on me.
  The drug store, you will remember, where she and I met down at the corner of Rodney and Elm has changed hands again. It's been empty for some months, even the Liggett's up the street couldn't match the prices at the cut-rate at the mall over toward Red Lion.
  It is sad to see the old big windows empty and the door at the corner boarded across. When I was your age I would have thought if anything was going to last forever it was Seth Addison's drug store and Wayne Phillips' bank down the street but both were just here for a time it turns out.
  The whole block has changed—a pit full of bricks where the Roxie was and the Oddfellows' Hall locked up for lack of new members. A video store where the pool tables used to be. People blame the malls but it's not all the malls it's that people don't have the loyal sense of community they used to. Also the young people are too busy making ends meet.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Alma had been retaining her next line in her head throughout this long expository speech. "Mr. Dix, what can I do? I want my son to know I'm here for him."
  Something—the image of the whipped dog—pushed tears suddenly over her lower lids. "He's trapped!" she blurted out.
  Patrick put an arm around her and said to Fred Dix, "Suppose the boy wants to reach her, how will we know?"
  Dix took it but felt the need of some ceremonial remark, some acknowledgment that a goddess had descended to be among them. Essie was afraid he would try to kiss her hand. He said, "A true honor, ma'am. I guess a thing like this shows the movies weren't exaggerating, they were telling the simple truth."
  The year 1990 brought an inch or two of fresh powder every night. The routines within the Temple rarely varied. The main event of January, which they all prayed over and discussed for days, was Matthew's defection. The big, puppy-like, near-sighted Hoosier had loved his mission work—the trips to Hawaii and Australia and even Israel and Thailand, where against all the odds he had created nuclei of converts back in the Eighties—and perhaps, so outward-turned, had been simply too lonely. He crept out in the night; the sound of the police car with its escort of news vans taking him away had woken some of those within the Temple. By morning a fresh fall had erased even his tracks in the snow. He was charged, television told them, with murder, conspiracy, attempted murder, and interfering with the duties of a police officer. In his jail cell he became, for a week or so, a great favorite of the press, and, his fervor for Jesse's Word unabated, did continue to spread the gospel. But the media have a brief attention span, and soon he sat unattended in his cell, waiting out the yawning intervals in the legal process. Jesse took a mild view of the betrayal: "Well, I guess Matt was one of those seeds that without looking it had gone and fallen on stony ground."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last paragraph
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Too many grandmothers, Emily sometimes complained. She was besotted with little Essie. The child was perfection. Once, a week or so after they had come home from the hospital, Teddy surprised Emily bent over the child's crib. Her two hands were rapturously clutched around her daughter's bare feet--those tiny, round-soled, puffy-backed, violettinged feet, feet just unfolded from the bud, the skin of them wrinkled like dogwood petals and finer-grained than silk. Softly, greedily squeezing, Emily had been taken unawares by her husband; her eyes, with their big movie-star whites, rolled upward to him in a glance of guilty surprise swiftly replaced by a watery plea that he ignore in her worship the something shameful. "She's perfect," she said apologetically.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "She's perfect," she said apologetically.. Softly, greedily squeezing, Emily had been taken unawares by her husband; her eyes, with their big movie-star whites, rolled upward to him in a glance of guilty surprise swiftly replaced by a watery plea that he ignore in her worship the something shameful. Her two hands were rapturously clutched around her daughter's bare feet--those tiny, round-soled, puffy-backed, violettinged feet, feet just unfolded from the bud, the skin of them wrinkled like dogwood petals and finer-grained than silk. Once, a week or so after they had come home from the hospital, Teddy surprised Emily bent over the child's crib. The child was perfection. She was besotted with little Essie.Too many grandmothers, Emily sometimes complained