conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled A Slight Trick of the Mind about Holmes, Sussex, Arthur with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.. Start with the sentence 'Long after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle allowed him to retire to Sussex to take up beekeeping, there seems to be no end of enthusiasm for imagined versions of the life of Sherlock Holmes'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Long after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle allowed him to retire to Sussex to take up beekeeping, there seems to be no end of enthusiasm for imagined versions of the life of Sherlock Holmes. There was Michael Chabon's <a href="/exec/obidos/ASIN/006076340X/${0}">The Final Solution</a> in which "the old man," an 89-year-old beekeeper in Sussex is undoubtedly Holmes. <a href="/exec/obidos/exact-author=King%2c%20Laurie/${0}">Laurie King</a>, a fine mystery writer, has appropriated Holmes and created a romance between him and young Mary Russell which has lasted through several enjoyable storys. And now, nonagenarian Holmes reappears, most appealingly, in the author's A Slight Trick of the Mind. He is frail and forgetful but still observant and capable of shining the bright light of his insight and brilliance on events both past and present.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Slight Trick of the Mind
  Yet his hands kept busy even as his mind was at a loss. His fingers roamed about the desktop—sliding over the many pages before him, randomly underlining sentences—ultimately rummaging through the stacks of papers without any apparent reason. It was as if his fingers were operating of their own accord, searching for something that had recently been forgotten. Pages and pages were set aside, one upon another—creating an entirely new stack near the center of the desk—until, at last, his fingers lifted that unfinished manuscript that was held together by a single rubber band: "The Glass Armonicist." Initially, he gazed blankly at the manuscript, appearing indifferent to its rediscovery; nor did he discern in any way that Roger had repeatedly studied the text, the boy sneaking into the attic on occasion to check if the story had been elaborated or finished.
  But it was the manuscript's title that finally eased Holmes from his stupor, producing a curious, modest smile within his beard; for if the words had not been written clearly at the top, appearing above the first section, he might have put the manuscript into the new stack, where the text would once more become obscured beneath subsequent and unrelated jottings. Now his fingers removed the rubber band, letting it drop to the desktop. Thereafter, he reclined in his chair, reading the incomplete story as if it had been written by someone else. Nevertheless, the recollection of Mrs. Keller suddenly persisted with a certain amount of clarity. He could behold her photograph. He could easily summon her upset husband sitting across from him at Baker Street. Even when pausing for a few seconds, glancing upward at the ceiling, he could still place himself back in time—venturing out from Baker Street with Mr. Keller, mixing amid the crowded din of London's thoroughfares as they made their way toward Portman's. He could, on that night, occupy the past better than the present, doing so as the wind murmured ceaselessly against the attic panes.
  At precisely four o'clock, my client and I were positioned beside a lamppost, waiting across the street from Portman's, but Mrs. Keller had not yet arrived. As it happened, we were also loitering within sight of the shuttered rooms I had leased on Montague Street when I first came up to London in 1877. Clearly, there was no reason to share such personal information with my client, or to impart that—during my youthful tenure within that terrace development—Portman's shop was once a female boardinghouse of some dubious repute. Even so, the area itself had changed little since I lodged there, and consisted mostly of identical common-walled dwellings, the ground floors dressed in white stone, the upper three levels showing brick.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Mrs. Munro's words found him then: "He's a good boy," she'd said when taking the job of housekeeper. "Keeps to himself, rather shy—very quiet, more like his father was. He won't be a burden on you, I promise."
  Except, Holmes knew now, the boy had become a burden, a most painful burden. All the same, he told himself, whether it was Roger or anyone else, every life had a finish. And every one of the dead he'd knelt beside had had a life. He set his sights on the stairs below, and while beginning his descent, he repeated within the questions he'd pondered to no avail since his youth: "What is the meaning of it? What object is served by this circle of misery? It must tend to some end, or else the universe is ruled by chance. But what end?"
  Upon reaching the second floor—where he'd use the lavatory, and enliven his face and neck with cold water—Holmes heard, for a moment, the faint hum of what he imagined to be an insect or bird singing, and thought of the thick stems that likely guarded it. For neither stems nor insects took part in the misery of mankind. Perhaps, he mused, this was why—as opposed to people—they could return again and again. Only later, when arriving on the ground floor of his house, would he realize that the humming was originating indoors—a soft drone, sporadic and human, brightening the kitchen; it was a woman's, or a child's voice, to be sure—although clearly not Mrs. Munro's, and, with certainty, not Roger's.
  Taking half a dozen nimble steps, Holmes brought himself to the kitchen doorway, catching sight of steam rising from a boiling pot on the stove. Then moving inside, he spotted her at the cutting board, her backside to him as she sliced a potato and thoughtlessly hummed. But it was the long, waving black hair that at once unsettled him—the floating black hair, the pink-and-white skin of her arms, that diminutive form he associated with the unfortunate Mrs. Keller. How speechless he stood there, incapable of addressing such an apparition—until, finally, he parted his lips, desperately saying, "Why have you come here?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: How speechless he stood there, incapable of addressing such an apparition—until, finally, he parted his lips, desperately saying, "Why have you come here?". Keller. But it was the long, waving black hair that at once unsettled him—the floating black hair, the pink-and-white skin of her arms, that diminutive form he associated with the unfortunate Mrs. Then moving inside, he spotted her at the cutting board, her backside to him as she sliced a potato and thoughtlessly hummed.
  Taking half a dozen nimble steps, Holmes brought himself to the kitchen doorway, catching sight of steam rising from a boiling pot on the stove. Munro's, and, with certainty, not Roger's. Only later, when arriving on the ground floor of his house, would he realize that the humming was originating indoors—a soft drone, sporadic and human, brightening the kitchen; it was a woman's, or a child's voice, to be sure—although clearly not Mrs. Perhaps, he mused, this was why—as opposed to people—they could return again and again. For neither stems nor insects took part in the misery of mankind. But what end?"
  Upon reaching the second floor—where he'd use the lavatory, and enliven his face and neck with cold water—Holmes heard, for a moment, the faint hum of what he imagined to be an insect or bird singing, and thought of the thick stems that likely guarded it. He set his sights on the stairs below, and while beginning his descent, he repeated within the questions he'd pondered to no avail since his youth: "What is the meaning of it? What object is served by this circle of misery? It must tend to some end, or else the universe is ruled by chance. And every one of the dead he'd knelt beside had had a life. All the same, he told himself, whether it was Roger or anyone else, every life had a finish."
  Except, Holmes knew now, the boy had become a burden, a most painful burden. He won't be a burden on you, I promise. "Keeps to himself, rather shy—very quiet, more like his father was. Munro's words found him then: "He's a good boy," she'd said when taking the job of housekeeper.Mrs
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There remained, however, a final theory, which seemed rather likely. Plumbism was, in those days, barely an uncommon ailment, especially since lead could be found in dinnerware and utensils, candles, water pipes, the leading of windows, paint, and pewter drinking vessels. Without question, lead would also be found in the armonica's glass stemware and the paint applied to each bowl as a means to differentiate the notes. I have long suspected that chronic lead poisoning was the cause of Beethoven's illnesses, deafness, and ultimate death, for he, too, devoted hours to the mastering of the armonica's glasses. Therefore, the theory was a strong one—so strong that I had determined to prove its validity. But what soon became apparent was that Mrs. Keller carried none of the symptoms of acute or chronic plumbism; she had no staggering gait, or seizures, or colic, or decreased intellectual functioning. And while she could have acquired lead poisoning by never having touched an armonica, I understood that the general malaise she experienced early on had been eased somewhat by the instrument and not compounded by it. Furthermore, her very hands dismissed that initial suspicion; they were lacking of blemishes or the blue-black discolourment which would have been seen nearest the fingertips.
  No, I had finally concluded, she was never mad or ill, nor was she despairing to the point of insanity. She had, for reasons unknown, simply extracted herself from the human equation and ceased to be; doing so, perhaps, as some contrary means of survival. And even now I wonder if creation is both too beautiful and too horrible for a handful of perceptive souls, and if the realisation of this opposing duality can offer them few options but to take leave of their own accord. Beyond that, I can give no other explanation which may strike closer to the truth of the matter. Still, it has never been a conclusion I have wanted to live comfortably with.
  As it happened, I was finishing this analysis of his wife when Mr. Keller eased forwards in the chair, his hand sliding limply down the bottle's length to rest palm upwards on a corner of the side table. But for once, his grim, haggard features had softened and there was a gentle breathing which rose from his chest. Too much grief and too little sleep, I was sure. Too much brandy. So I remained for a while, indulging myself with a glass of La Marque Speciale—then another—rising to go only when the liqueur flushed my cheeks and blunted the melancholy which had saturated my entire being. Soon I would cross the rooms of the house, seeking the sunlight which was seen faintly along the edges of those pulled curtains—although not until I retrieved Mrs. Keller's photograph from an overcoat pocket and, with some reluctance to do so, placed it in the lax palm of my client's outstretched hand. After that, I made my exit without looking back, traversing the space between darkness and light as swiftly as possible, jettisoning myself into an afternoon which persists in my memory just as bright and blue and cloudless as it was on that long-ago day.
  But I was not yet willing to return to Baker Street; rather, on that sunny spring afternoon, I set off towards Montague Street, savouring the experience of strolling along the thoroughfares Mrs. Keller had known so well. And all the while, I imagined what might await me when I stepped into Portman's garden. In time, I found myself there—having passed through the empty shop, along the shadowy aisles, out the back—at the garden's centre where the small bench was encircled by the boxwood hedge. I paused to admire the view, surveying the perennial beds and the roses along the perimeter wall. There was a slight breeze, and looking beyond the hedge, I observed the foxglove and geraniums and lilies swaying. Presently, I seated myself upon the bench and waited for the armonica to play. I had brought with me several of John's Bradley cigarettes, and removing one from my waistcoat, I began to smoke while listening for the music. And it was as I stayed there, peering at the hedge, relishing the scents of the garden, which mixed not unfavourably with the tobacco, that a tangible feeling of longing and isolation began to stir within me.
  The breeze increased in strength, but only for a moment. The hedge shuddered wildly; the perennials wavered this way and that. The breeze settled, and in the ensuing quiet, I realised that the music would not, while the day dimmed, play for the likes of me. How regrettable that that alluring instrument, whose strains were so possessing, so richly emblematic, would fail to arouse me as before. How could it ever be the same? She had taken her life; she had gone. And what did it matter if, eventually, everything was to be lost, vanquished, or if there existed no ultimate reason, or pattern, or logic to all which was done on the earth? For she was not there, and yet I remained. Never had I felt such incomprehensible emptiness within myself, and just then, as my body moved from the bench, did I begin to understand how utterly alone I was in the world. So with dusk's fast approach, I would take nothing away from the garden, except that impossible vacancy, that absence inside which still had the weight of another person—a gap which formed the contour of a singular, curious woman who never once beheld my true self.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Plumbism was, in those days, barely an uncommon ailment, especially since lead could be found in dinnerware and utensils, candles, water pipes, the leading of windows, paint, and pewter drinking vessels. Without question, lead would also be found in the armonica's glass stemware and the paint applied to each bowl as a means to differentiate the notes. I have long suspected that chronic lead poisoning was the cause of Beethoven's illnesses, deafness, and ultimate death, for he, too, devoted hours to the mastering of the armonica's glasses. Therefore, the theory was a strong one—so strong that I had determined to prove its validity. But what soon became apparent was that Mrs. Keller carried none of the symptoms of acute or chronic plumbism; she had no staggering gait, or seizures, or colic, or decreased intellectual functioning. And while she could have acquired lead poisoning by never having touched an armonica, I understood that the general malaise she experienced early on had been eased somewhat by the instrument and not compounded by it. Furthermore, her very hands dismissed that initial suspicion; they were lacking of blemishes or the blue-black discolourment which would have been seen nearest the fingertips.
  No, I had finally concluded, she was never mad or ill, nor was she despairing to the point of insanity. She had, for reasons unknown, simply extracted herself from the human equation and ceased to be; doing so, perhaps, as some contrary means of survival. And even now I wonder if creation is both too beautiful and too horrible for a handful of perceptive souls, and if the realisation of this opposing duality can offer them few options but to take leave of their own accord. Beyond that, I can give no other explanation which may strike closer to the truth of the matter. Still, it has never been a conclusion I have wanted to live comfortably with.
  As it happened, I was finishing this analysis of his wife when Mr. Keller eased forwards in the chair, his hand sliding limply down the bottle's length to rest palm upwards on a corner of the side table. But for once, his grim, haggard features had softened and there was a gentle breathing which rose from his chest. Too much grief and too little sleep, I was sure. Too much brandy. So I remained for a while, indulging myself with a glass of La Marque Speciale—then another—rising to go only when the liqueur flushed my cheeks and blunted the melancholy which had saturated my entire being. Soon I would cross the rooms of the house, seeking the sunlight which was seen faintly along the edges of those pulled curtains—although not until I retrieved Mrs. Keller's photograph from an overcoat pocket and, with some reluctance to do so, placed it in the lax palm of my client's outstretched hand. After that, I made my exit without looking back, traversing the space between darkness and light as swiftly as possible, jettisoning myself into an afternoon which persists in my memory just as bright and blue and cloudless as it was on that long-ago day.
  But I was not yet willing to return to Baker Street; rather, on that sunny spring afternoon, I set off towards Montague Street, savouring the experience of strolling along the thoroughfares Mrs. Keller had known so well. And all the while, I imagined what might await me when I stepped into Portman's garden. In time, I found myself there—having passed through the empty shop, along the shadowy aisles, out the back—at the garden's centre where the small bench was encircled by the boxwood hedge. I paused to admire the view, surveying the perennial beds and the roses along the perimeter wall. There was a slight breeze, and looking beyond the hedge, I observed the foxglove and geraniums and lilies swaying. Presently, I seated myself upon the bench and waited for the armonica to play. I had brought with me several of John's Bradley cigarettes, and removing one from my waistcoat, I began to smoke while listening for the music. And it was as I stayed there, peering at the hedge, relishing the scents of the garden, which mixed not unfavourably with the tobacco, that a tangible feeling of longing and isolation began to stir within me.
  The breeze increased in strength, but only for a moment. The hedge shuddered wildly; the perennials wavered this way and that. The breeze settled, and in the ensuing quiet, I realised that the music would not, while the day dimmed, play for the likes of me. How regrettable that that alluring instrument, whose strains were so possessing, so richly emblematic, would fail to arouse me as before. How could it ever be the same? She had taken her life; she had gone. And what did it matter if, eventually, everything was to be lost, vanquished, or if there existed no ultimate reason, or pattern, or logic to all which was done on the earth? For she was not there, and yet I remained. Never had I felt such incomprehensible emptiness within myself, and just then, as my body moved from the bench, did I begin to understand how utterly alone I was in the world. So with dusk's fast approach, I would take nothing away from the garden, except that impossible vacancy, that absence inside which still had the weight of another person—a gap which formed the contour of a singular, curious woman who never once beheld my true self.