conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Framboise, Tomas, Five with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Five Quarters of the Orange'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Five Quarters of the Orange
  Carefully, I scrambled down the bank and into the water. It was cold and river mud oozed between my toes. I waded out until the water was waist deep. I could feel the current now, like an impatient dog at the leash. God, it was already so strong! I put out a hand against the first pillar, pushing away from it into the current, and took another step. I knew there was a drop just ahead, a point at which the still-shallow verge of the Loire sheared away into nothingness. Cassis, when he was making the trip, always pretended to drown at this point, turning belly-up into the opaque water, struggling and screaming, with a mouthful of brown Loire spurting from between his lips. He always fooled Reine, however many times he did this, making her squeal in horror as he sank beneath the surface.
  I had no time for such an exhibition. I felt for the drop with my toes. There. Pushing against the riverbed, I propelled myself as far as I could with my first kick, keeping the Standing Stones downriver to my right. The water was warmer on the surface, and the drag of current not as strong. I swam steadily, in a smooth arc, from the first Standing Stone to the second. The stones were maybe twelve feet apart at their widest stretch, spread unevenly from the bank. I could make five feet with a good strong kick against each pillar, aiming slightly upstream so the current would bring me back to the next pillar in time to begin again. Like a small boat tacking against a strong wind, I limped towards the Treasure Stone, feeling the current grow stronger each time. I was gasping with cold. Then I was at the fourth pillar, making my final lunge towards my goal. As the current dragged me towards the Treasure Stone I overshot the pillar, and there was a moment of sudden, sparkling terror as I began to move downstream into the main drag of the river, my arms and legs pinwheeling against the water. Panting, almost crying with panic, I managed to kick myself within range of the stone, and grabbed the chain that secured the Treasure Chest to the pillar. It felt weedy and unpleasant in my hand, slimed with the brown ooze of the river, but I used it to manoeuvre myself around the pillar.
  I clung there for a moment, letting my pounding heart quiet. Then, with my back wedged safely against the pillar, I hauled the Treasure Chest up and out of its muddy cradle. It was a difficult job. The box itself was not especially heavy, but weighted with chain and tarpaulin as it was, it seemed a dead weight. Trembling with cold now, my teeth clattering, I struggled with the chain and finally felt something give. Kicking my legs frantically to keep my position against the pillar, I hauled at the box. I knew another moment of near panic as the mud-slimed tarpaulin caught at my feet, then my fingers were working at the rope which held the box. For an instant I was sure my numbed fingers would not be able to open the tin, then the catch gave way and water rushed into the Treasure Chest. I swore. Still, there was the purse, an old brown leather thing Mother had discarded because of a faulty catch. I grabbed it and jammed it between my teeth for safety, then, with a final effort, I slammed the box closed and let it sink, weighted by its chain, to the bottom again. The tarpaulin was lost, of course, the remaining treasure waterlogged, but that couldn't be helped. Cassis would have to find somewhere drier to hide his cigarettes. I had the money, and that was all that mattered.
  I swam back to the bank, missing the last two pillars and drifting 200 yards down towards the Angers road before I managed to steer myself out of the current, which was now more like a dog than ever, a mad, brown dog with its leash twined crazily around my frozen legs. The whole episode, I guessed, had taken maybe ten minutes.
  I forced myself to rest awhile, feeling the slight warmth of the sun's first rays on my face, drying the mud of the Loire on my skin. I was trembling with cold and exhilaration. I counted the money in the purse; there was certainly enough for a cinema ticket and a glass of squash. Good. Then I walked upstream to where I had left my clothes. I dressed in my old skirt and a red sleeveless man's shirt, cut down to make an overall, and clogs. I did a perfunctory check on my fishing traps, tipping out the small fry or leaving it in place as bait. In a cray-pot by the Lookout Post there was the unexpected bonus of a small pike – not Old Mother, of course – and this I slid out into the bucket I had brought from the house. Other catches – a mess of eels from the muddy flats beside the big sandbank, a sizeable bleak from one of my catch-all nets – I piled into the bucket. They would be my alibi if Cassis and Reine were awake when I returned. Then I made my way home through the fields as unobtrusively as I had come.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Five Quarters of the Orange
  Carefully, I scrambled down the bank and into the water. It was cold and river mud oozed between my toes. I waded out until the water was waist deep. I could feel the current now, like an impatient dog at the leash. God, it was already so strong! I put out a hand against the first pillar, pushing away from it into the current, and took another step. I knew there was a drop just ahead, a point at which the still-shallow verge of the Loire sheared away into nothingness. Cassis, when he was making the trip, always pretended to drown at this point, turning belly-up into the opaque water, struggling and screaming, with a mouthful of brown Loire spurting from between his lips. He always fooled Reine, however many times he did this, making her squeal in horror as he sank beneath the surface.
  I had no time for such an exhibition. I felt for the drop with my toes. There. Pushing against the riverbed, I propelled myself as far as I could with my first kick, keeping the Standing Stones downriver to my right. The water was warmer on the surface, and the drag of current not as strong. I swam steadily, in a smooth arc, from the first Standing Stone to the second. The stones were maybe twelve feet apart at their widest stretch, spread unevenly from the bank. I could make five feet with a good strong kick against each pillar, aiming slightly upstream so the current would bring me back to the next pillar in time to begin again. Like a small boat tacking against a strong wind, I limped towards the Treasure Stone, feeling the current grow stronger each time. I was gasping with cold. Then I was at the fourth pillar, making my final lunge towards my goal. As the current dragged me towards the Treasure Stone I overshot the pillar, and there was a moment of sudden, sparkling terror as I began to move downstream into the main drag of the river, my arms and legs pinwheeling against the water. Panting, almost crying with panic, I managed to kick myself within range of the stone, and grabbed the chain that secured the Treasure Chest to the pillar. It felt weedy and unpleasant in my hand, slimed with the brown ooze of the river, but I used it to manoeuvre myself around the pillar.
  I clung there for a moment, letting my pounding heart quiet. Then, with my back wedged safely against the pillar, I hauled the Treasure Chest up and out of its muddy cradle. It was a difficult job. The box itself was not especially heavy, but weighted with chain and tarpaulin as it was, it seemed a dead weight. Trembling with cold now, my teeth clattering, I struggled with the chain and finally felt something give. Kicking my legs frantically to keep my position against the pillar, I hauled at the box. I knew another moment of near panic as the mud-slimed tarpaulin caught at my feet, then my fingers were working at the rope which held the box. For an instant I was sure my numbed fingers would not be able to open the tin, then the catch gave way and water rushed into the Treasure Chest. I swore. Still, there was the purse, an old brown leather thing Mother had discarded because of a faulty catch. I grabbed it and jammed it between my teeth for safety, then, with a final effort, I slammed the box closed and let it sink, weighted by its chain, to the bottom again. The tarpaulin was lost, of course, the remaining treasure waterlogged, but that couldn't be helped. Cassis would have to find somewhere drier to hide his cigarettes. I had the money, and that was all that mattered.
  I swam back to the bank, missing the last two pillars and drifting 200 yards down towards the Angers road before I managed to steer myself out of the current, which was now more like a dog than ever, a mad, brown dog with its leash twined crazily around my frozen legs. The whole episode, I guessed, had taken maybe ten minutes.
  I forced myself to rest awhile, feeling the slight warmth of the sun's first rays on my face, drying the mud of the Loire on my skin. I was trembling with cold and exhilaration. I counted the money in the purse; there was certainly enough for a cinema ticket and a glass of squash. Good. Then I walked upstream to where I had left my clothes. I dressed in my old skirt and a red sleeveless man's shirt, cut down to make an overall, and clogs. I did a perfunctory check on my fishing traps, tipping out the small fry or leaving it in place as bait. In a cray-pot by the Lookout Post there was the unexpected bonus of a small pike – not Old Mother, of course – and this I slid out into the bucket I had brought from the house. Other catches – a mess of eels from the muddy flats beside the big sandbank, a sizeable bleak from one of my catch-all nets – I piled into the bucket. They would be my alibi if Cassis and Reine were awake when I returned.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It's there in my mother's album, opposite a recipe for blackberry cake. Tiny migraine letters in black ink, the lines crossed and recrossed, as if even the code in which she writes is not enough to hide the fear she hides from us and from herself.
  She looked at me today as if I wasn't there. I wanted so hard to take her in my arms, but she's grown so much and I'm afraid of her eyes. Only R-C keeps a little softness but B doesn't feel like my child any more. My mistake was thinking children were like trees. Prune them back and they'll grow sweeter. Not true. Not true. When Y died I made them grow up too fast. I didn't want them to be children. Now they're harder than me. Like animals. My fault. I made them that way. Oranges in the house again tonight, but no-one smells them but me. My head aches. If only she could put her hand on my forehead. No more pills. The German says he can get some more, but he doesn't come. 'Boise. Late home tonight. Like me, divided.
  It sounds like gibberish, but her voice in my mind is suddenly very clear. It is sharp and plaintive, the voice of a woman hanging on to her sanity with every bit of her strength.
  Paul and I read through the album little by little during those lengthening nights. I deciphered the code whilst he wrote down and cross-referenced everything by means of small cards, trying to put events in sequence. He never commented, not even when I passed over certain sections without telling him why. We averaged two or three pages a night, not a great deal, but by October we had covered almost half the album. For some reason it seemed a less arduous task than when I'd tried it alone, and we would often sit late into the night remembering the old days of the Lookout Post and the rituals at the Standing Stones, the good days before Tomas. Once or twice I even came close to telling him the truth, but I always stopped just in time.
  When I came in the others were already at the table. Mother greeted me with her strange, forced cheeriness, but I could tell she was at the end of her tether. The smell of orange stung my sensitized nostrils. I watched her intently. We ate in silence.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We ate in silence. Tiny migraine letters in black ink, the lines crossed and recrossed, as if even the code in which she writes is not enough to hide the fear she hides from us and from herself.
  She looked at me today as if I wasn't there. I wanted so hard to take her in my arms, but she's grown so much and I'm afraid of her eyes. Only R-C keeps a little softness but B doesn't feel like my child any more. My mistake was thinking children were like trees. Prune them back and they'll grow sweeter. Not true. Not true. When Y died I made them grow up too fast. I didn't want them to be children. Now they're harder than me. Like animals. My fault. I made them that way. Oranges in the house again tonight, but no-one smells them but me. My head aches. If only she could put her hand on my forehead. No more pills. The German says he can get some more, but he doesn't come. 'Boise. Late home tonight. Like me, divided.
  It sounds like gibberish, but her voice in my mind is suddenly very clear. It is sharp and plaintive, the voice of a woman hanging on to her sanity with every bit of her strength.
  Paul and I read through the album little by little during those lengthening nights. I deciphered the code whilst he wrote down and cross-referenced everything by means of small cards, trying to put events in sequence. He never commented, not even when I passed over certain sections without telling him why. We averaged two or three pages a night, not a great deal, but by October we had covered almost half the album. For some reason it seemed a less arduous task than when I'd tried it alone, and we would often sit late into the night remembering the old days of the Lookout Post and the rituals at the Standing Stones, the good days before Tomas. Once or twice I even came close to telling him the truth, but I always stopped just in time.
  When I came in the others were already at the table. Mother greeted me with her strange, forced cheeriness, but I could tell she was at the end of her tether. The smell of orange stung my sensitized nostrils. I watched her intently.It's there in my mother's album, opposite a recipe for blackberry cake.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When an exotic stranger, Vianne Rocher, arrives in the French village of Lansquenet and opens a chocolate boutique directly opposite the church, Father Reynaud identifies her as a serious danger to his flock – especially as it is the beginning of Lent, the traditional season of self-denial. War is declared as the priest denounces the newcomer's wares as the ultimate sin.
  Suddenly Vianne's shop-cum-café means that there is somewhere for secrets to be whispered, grievances to be aired, dreams to be tested. But Vianne's plans for an Easter Chocolate Festival divide the whole community in a conflict that escalates into a 'Church not Chocolate' battle. As mouths water in anticipation, can the solemnity of the Church compare with the pagan passion of a chocolate éclair?
  A delicious début novel set in Sicily about a shy librarian with a broken heart whose passion for cooking leads to an expected love affair.
  Anouchka, Madame Douazan, Great-Aunt Simone... These are not characters from one of Joanne Harris's novels, they are the inspiration for a mouth-watering celebration of French cuisine. For, like Framboise, the heroine of , Joanne Harris has family recipes that have been passed down through the generations, and she shares them with us now. From Grandmother's Festival Loaf to traditional French classics like Moules Mariniere or Daube of Beef, The French Kitchen is a tantalizing collection of casseroles, soups, roasts, salads, tarts and sweets.
  A collaboration between a writer who loves food and a former chef who loves writing about food, The French Kitchen gathers together simple yet stylish recipes from the heart of a French family.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A collaboration between a writer who loves food and a former chef who loves writing about food, The French Kitchen gathers together simple yet stylish recipes from the heart of a French family. War is declared as the priest denounces the newcomer's wares as the ultimate sin.
  Suddenly Vianne's shop-cum-café means that there is somewhere for secrets to be whispered, grievances to be aired, dreams to be tested. But Vianne's plans for an Easter Chocolate Festival divide the whole community in a conflict that escalates into a 'Church not Chocolate' battle. As mouths water in anticipation, can the solemnity of the Church compare with the pagan passion of a chocolate éclair?
  A delicious début novel set in Sicily about a shy librarian with a broken heart whose passion for cooking leads to an expected love affair.
  Anouchka, Madame Douazan, Great-Aunt Simone... These are not characters from one of Joanne Harris's novels, they are the inspiration for a mouth-watering celebration of French cuisine. For, like Framboise, the heroine of , Joanne Harris has family recipes that have been passed down through the generations, and she shares them with us now. From Grandmother's Festival Loaf to traditional French classics like Moules Mariniere or Daube of Beef, The French Kitchen is a tantalizing collection of casseroles, soups, roasts, salads, tarts and sweets.When an exotic stranger, Vianne Rocher, arrives in the French village of Lansquenet and opens a chocolate boutique directly opposite the church, Father Reynaud identifies her as a serious danger to his flock – especially as it is the beginning of Lent, the traditional season of self-denial.