conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Little, Devil, During with the genre: Literature & Fiction, United States?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Never Romance a Rake'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Never Romance a Rake
  October was a vile month, Baron Rothewell thought as he peered through the spatter trickling down his carriage window. John Keats had been either a poetic liar or a romantic fool. In dreary Marylebone, autumn was no season of soft mist and mellow fruitfulness. It was the season of gloom and decay. Skeletal branches clattered in the squares, and leaves which should have been skirling colorfully about instead plastered the streets and hitched up against the wrought-iron fences in sodden brown heaps. London—what little of it had ever lived—was in the midst of dying.
  As his carriage wheels swished relentlessly through the water and worse, Rothewell drew on the stub of a cheroot and stared almost unseeingly at the pavement beyond. At this time of day, it was empty save for the occasional clerk or servant hastening past with a black umbrella clutched grimly in hand. The baron saw no one whom he knew. But then, he knew almost no one.
  At the corner of Cavendish Square and Harley Street, he hammered upon the roof of his traveling coach with the brass knob of his walking stick, and ordered his driver to halt. The brace of footmen posted to the rear of the carriage hastened round to drop the steps. Rothewell was notoriously impatient.
  He descended, the folds of his dark cloak furling elegantly about him as he spun round to look up at his coachman. "Return to Berkeley Square." In the drizzle, his command sounded rather like the low rumble of thunder. "I shall walk home when my business here is done."
  No one bothered to counsel him against walking in the damp. Nor did they dare ask what brought him all the way from the Docklands to the less familiar lanes of Marylebone. Rothewell was a private man, and not an especially well-tempered one.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Camille drew her cloak a little tighter, and felt her cheeks color. "Oh, one," she confessed. "I should be so happy with just one."
  She shook her head. "More than that," she answered. "A sadness that comes from regret. An emptiness in the heart."
  Their pace had slowed, but for a time, neither spoke. The breeze picked up slightly, lifting the soft tendrils of hair which peeked from beneath Xanthia's bonnet. Her cheeks had grown pink in the sharp autumn air. Camille sensed that something was weighing on her.
  Finally, Xanthia exhaled on a long sigh and turned to look at her. "Camille, are you in love with my brother?"
  Xanthia kicked a stone from their path with the toe of her shoe and slowly resumed her pace. "She once played a cruel trick on someone whom I love very much," she said musingly. "My niece, Martinique. I cannot prove it, mind you. Still, I know she did it, and I shall never forgive her. And she will wish you to the devil as soon as she lays eyes on you."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She was so very proud of him, and of his many efforts—here, helping Xanthia at Neville's. At home with the estate and all the other business interests which required his constant attention. But she was especially proud of his new association with Anthony Hayden-Worth, a politician who was still young enough and energetic enough to think all the world's ills could be fixed if one simply worked hard enough. Perhaps he was right.
  He turned to face her, his smile faint. "And speaking of that alliance, I suppose I'd best head back to Westminster." He paused to embrace her again. "I shall just go and kiss Isabella, then see you both at home, shall I?"
  He regarded her a little sheepishly. "You know, I've a desperate wish for one of Obelienne's orange sponge cakes," he confessed. "After all, I am not precisely fat yet. And I thought—well, I thought if we mashed one of the oranges up with a little sugar, perhaps Isabella might think it a great treat?"
  Camille shot him a warning look. "Oh, don't come the innocent with me, my dear," she said darkly. "They are perfectly indigestible, as Mr. Kemble says. Trammel found the resulting evidence next to the sideboard—and it stained the carpet, I might add."
  Kieran drew her back into his arms and kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. "Don't scold," he said when at last their lips parted. "I warned you, my dear, when you agreed to marry me."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She was so very proud of him, and of his many efforts—here, helping Xanthia at Neville's. At home with the estate and all the other business interests which required his constant attention. But she was especially proud of his new association with Anthony Hayden-Worth, a politician who was still young enough and energetic enough to think all the world's ills could be fixed if one simply worked hard enough. Perhaps he was right.
  He turned to face her, his smile faint. "And speaking of that alliance, I suppose I'd best head back to Westminster." He paused to embrace her again. "I shall just go and kiss Isabella, then see you both at home, shall I?"
  He regarded her a little sheepishly. "You know, I've a desperate wish for one of Obelienne's orange sponge cakes," he confessed. "After all, I am not precisely fat yet. And I thought—well, I thought if we mashed one of the oranges up with a little sugar, perhaps Isabella might think it a great treat?"
  Camille shot him a warning look. "Oh, don't come the innocent with me, my dear," she said darkly. "They are perfectly indigestible, as Mr. Kemble says. Trammel found the resulting evidence next to the sideboard—and it stained the carpet, I might add."
  Kieran drew her back into his arms and kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. "Don't scold," he said when at last their lips parted. "I warned you, my dear, when you agreed to marry me.