conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a epub book with the title 'Grand Hotel'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Grand Hotel
  Preysing listened with impatience. He was in a nervous state. The lawyer's studied phrases irritated him. Zinnowitz always spoke as though he were at a board meeting, even when he was quite alone. When he rested his knuckles on the flimsy wicker table of the Winter Garden it instantly became the fateful green baize-covered table of a boardroom.
  Once again, Preysing interrupted the lawyer's clear exposition with a stupid question. "Is this offer from S.J.R. definite or only talk? How much have they offered?" he asked.
  Preysing stretched a hand towards his portfolio, drew it back and then finally took hold of it. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, its end chewed to pieces, he at last, on the third attempt, pulled out a blue folder with filed letters and copies of the replies.
  A dark red flush suddenly sprang to Preysing's wrinkled forehead; it became suffused with blood and his veins swelled. From time to time he had such crises of anger, of flushing and irascible vehemence.
  Doctor Zinnowitz looked with keen interest at the hot-tempered general manager, who was beginning to talk irresponsibly. "You are well known in the trade as a model of business propriety," he remarked politely, and there was a hint of patronage in the tone of his voice. Preysing broke off. He took the blue folder and stuffed it back into his briefcase with trembling hands.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Kringelein stared at Berlin as it streaked past. He was beginning to feel fairly familiar now with the great city. For example, he recognized the Brandenburg Gate from afar and also the Gedächtniskirche, which he greeted with a respectful glance.
  The street raced to meet the car with ever-increasing swiftness. They drew near the radio tower, the Funkturm. Kringelein had been there the evening before with Doctor Otternschlag as night was closing in. He had been exhausted by then and incapable of grasping anything. The remarkably smooth surfaces of the new and only half-finished pavilions in this neighborhood had pursued him in his dreams, and now reality and dream lay superimposed one on the other, half menacing and half incomprehensible.
  At first the wind grew colder and colder, blowing harder and harder, until at last it beat like a fist against his face. The engine sang on a rising note and at the same time something ghastly happened to Kringelein's legs. They were filled with air. Bubbles rose in his joints as if they would burst. For several seconds that seemed to last an incredible time, he could not breathe, and for several moments he thought, Now I'm dying. This is what it's like then. I am dying.
  His chest caved in and he gasped for breath. The car swallowed up one object after another before it could be recognized, streaks of red, green, and blue. A patch of red barely turned out to be a car before it vanished into nothingness behind them, and all the while Kringelein could not breathe. He felt now an unimagined sensation in his diaphragm. He tried to turn his head towards Gaigern. Strange to say he succeeded without finding it torn from his shoulders. Gaigern sat a little forward over the wheel and he was wearing his kid gloves though they were not buttoned up. This for some reason was reassuring. Just as what was left of Kringelein's stomach strove to escape at his throat, Gaigern's closed lips began to smile. Without taking his eyes off the Avus highway whirling past like an unwinding spool, he pointed somewhere with his chin, and Kringelein obediently followed the direction with his eyes. Having some intelligence he realized after a guess or two that the speedometer was what he saw before his eyes. The little pointer trembled slightly as it pointed to 110. Good Lord, thought Kringelein, and swallowing down his fears he bent forward and gave himself up to the rush of speed. Suddenly the new and appalling joy of danger overcame him. Faster! cried a frenzied Kringelein within him whom he had never known before. The car complied with 115. For a few moments it went up to 118, and Kringelein finally gave up all thought of breathing. He would have liked now to whirl on and on into darkness, on and on in the shock of explosion, and to get right beyond and out of time. No hospital bed, he thought, better a broken skull. Billboards still whirled past the car, but the spaces between them began to alter. Then the gray ragged streaks beside the road became pine woods. Kringelein saw trees eddying more slowly to meet the car and stepping back into the woods like people as the car went by. It was just as it was on the merry-go-round in Mickenau when it slowed down. Now he could read the names of oils, tires, and makes of cars on the billboards. The rush of air relaxed and streamed in his throat. The speedometer sank to 60, trembled a little, then 50–45, and then they left the Avus by the south gate and drove along soberly between the villas of Wannsee.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Otternschlag walked around the Lobby heading to his usual seat. Pageboy No. 7 flitted behind him, and the waiter brought him coffee. Otternschlag stared through his glass eye at the girl at the flower-stand arranging her flowers, but he did not see her.
  Otternschlag turned around and went back to his seat, this time making a beeline straight across the Lobby—a most remarkable event in his case. The hall porter ran past him. His blond and dependable sergeant's face was wet with perspiration as after some gigantic exertion. He came to a stop behind his desk, as though he had reached a haven.
  In the Lobby, Doctor Otternschlag sat and talked to himself. "It's dismal," he said. "Always the same. Nothing happens. One is always alone, dismally alone. The earth is an extinct planet—no warmth left in it. At Rouge Croix ninety-two men were buried in a landslide and never seen again. Perhaps I'm one of them and sit there with the rest ever since the end of the war and am dead and don't even know it. If only something worthwhile would happen in this great big pub. But no, not a thing. 'He left.' Adieu, Herr Kringelein. I could have given you a prescription for those pains of yours. But no, gone without a word. And so it goes. In—out, in—out, in—out—"
  Little Georgi, however, behind the mahogany desk was turning over a few simple and extremely banal thoughts. Marvelous the life you see in a big hotel like this, he was thinking. Marvelous. Always something going on. One man goes to prison, another gets killed. One leaves, another comes. They carry off one man on a stretcher by the back stairs, and at the same moment another man hears he has a baby. Very interesting actually! But that's Life!
  Doctor Otternschlag sat in the middle of the Lobby, a fossilized image of Loneliness and Death. He has his regular place, and so he stays on. His yellow hands hang down like lead, and with his glass eye he stares out into the street, which is full of sunshine that he cannot see...