conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Isabella, Florida, Oxford with the genre: Christian Books & Bibles, Literature & Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'All Through the Night'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled All Through the Night about Tami, Hoag, Thin with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "the author delivers!" Tami Hoag, author of A Thin Dark Line
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled All Through The Night about div>Lori, Foster, York with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: <div>Lori Foster is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of many contemporary romances. </div>
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All Through the Night
  He groaned and surged to his feet, scooping her up into his arms. Her body was as light and tempered as an épée. Yet strong as she was, he could kill her without any effort. Her fragility confounded him. Her strength abashed him.
  He carried her the few feet to the desk and lowered her to its edge. She stroked his arms and his chest with a shaking hand, as if she were afraid he would stop her and she needed to collect as many sensations as quickly as possible.
  She needn't have worried, he thought, his mouth twisting. He wouldn't stop her if a gun were held to his head.
  Lord, he should be used to restraint by now. He'd become a disciple to perpetual arousal, disciplined to months of unappeased longing. It didn't seem to matter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about clasped, peeled.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All Through the Night
  He groaned and surged to his feet, scooping her up into his arms. Her body was as light and tempered as an épée. Yet strong as she was, he could kill her without any effort. Her fragility confounded him. Her strength abashed him. 
  He carried her the few feet to the desk and lowered her to its edge. She clasped the edges of his torn shirt and peeled it from his shoulders. She stroked his arms and his chest with a shaking hand, as if she were afraid he would stop her and she needed to collect as many sensations as quickly as possible. 
  She needn't have worried, he thought, his mouth twisting. He wouldn't stop her if a gun were held to his head. 
  Lord, he should be used to restraint by now. He'd become a disciple to perpetual arousal, disciplined to months of unappeased longing. It didn't seem to matter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The sob caught in her throat and she choked it down. She rose to her feet. Her vision swam as she made her way unsteadily to the door. She met Spawling halfway up the stairs.
  The day passed in a nightmare of endless minutes. At noon Anne crept down to the study and cracked the door, peering in like a dog at the stable door.
  Griffin had stayed by Jack's side, tending him with an efficiency and expertise Anne could in no way emulate. He was there now, dribbling liquid from a spoon into Jack's slack mouth.
  A light blanket had been spread over Jack and a white bandage encircled his brow. But he hadn't woken and to her eyes his flesh looked nearly as white as the linen. She left without making herself known.
  Later in the afternoon she ventured from her room once more, drawn by the notion that she might be of some use, some comfort to Jack. She entered. Griffin was asleep in the chair, his head resting on his chest. She picked her way silently to Jack's side and looked down.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She picked her way silently to Jack's side and looked down. She rose to her feet. Her vision swam as she made her way unsteadily to the door. She met Spawling halfway up the stairs.
  The day passed in a nightmare of endless minutes. At noon Anne crept down to the study and cracked the door, peering in like a dog at the stable door.
  Griffin had stayed by Jack's side, tending him with an efficiency and expertise Anne could in no way emulate. He was there now, dribbling liquid from a spoon into Jack's slack mouth.
  A light blanket had been spread over Jack and a white bandage encircled his brow. But he hadn't woken and to her eyes his flesh looked nearly as white as the linen. She left without making herself known.
  Later in the afternoon she ventured from her room once more, drawn by the notion that she might be of some use, some comfort to Jack. She entered. Griffin was asleep in the chair, his head resting on his chest.The sob caught in her throat and she choked it down.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The fog rose early that evening, and it rose fast. It flowed over the ground and prowled up the sides of buildings, enveloping everything in its path with thick, soft plush. Anne and Jack stood on the balcony of Strand's mansion and watched the world being devoured by a cloud. Strand was not with them. Saying he preferred his club, he'd given them the use of the house.
  Jack's arms enfolded Anne, pressing her against him. Trapped mist sparkled in her loose hair and dusted her cheeks with dew. The moon had risen and its chance light found depths in her eyes he wanted to spend a lifetime exploring.
  Anne nodded. The fog had made its way to the balcony now. It wound around their ankles like little white phantom cats.
  But she looked instead at him, because in him she saw all and everything she held dear. She gazed at him long and faithfully. Filled with the singing sweetness of loving as well as being loved, she did not notice the fog finally enveloping them.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Filled with the singing sweetness of loving as well as being loved, she did not notice the fog finally enveloping them.. She gazed at him long and faithfully.
  But she looked instead at him, because in him she saw all and everything she held dear. It wound around their ankles like little white phantom cats. The fog had made its way to the balcony now.
  Anne nodded. The moon had risen and its chance light found depths in her eyes he wanted to spend a lifetime exploring. Trapped mist sparkled in her loose hair and dusted her cheeks with dew.
  Jack's arms enfolded Anne, pressing her against him. Saying he preferred his club, he'd given them the use of the house. Strand was not with them. Anne and Jack stood on the balcony of Strand's mansion and watched the world being devoured by a cloud. It flowed over the ground and prowled up the sides of buildings, enveloping everything in its path with thick, soft plush.The fog rose early that evening, and it rose fast
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All Through the Night
  When Michael Korda, my editor, called to suggest I write a Christmas story, my reply was, "Michael, I am hanging up this phone."
  Grazie to Associate Director of Copy Editing Gypsy da Silva and to Carol Bowie; to agent Sam Pinkus, who researched the world of probate courts and family services for me; to my publicist Lisl Cade and daughter Carol Higgins Clark for their always prescient comments and suggestions; and last but surely not least to my husband, John Conheeney.
  But then, as if satisfied, Monsignor Ferris resumed his journey to the back of the church. A moment later, the light in the vestibule was extinguished, and a door opened and closed. Lenny allowed himself an audible sigh—he was alone in St. Clement's church on West 103rd Street in Manhattan.
  Sondra stood in the doorway of a townhouse across the street from the church. The building was under repair, and the temporary scaffolding around the street level shielded her from the view of passersby. She wanted to be sure that Monsignor had left the church and was in the rectory before she left the baby. She had been attending services at St. Clement's for the last couple of days and had become familiar with his routine. She also knew that during Advent he would now be conducting a seven o'clock recitation of the rosary service.
  Weak from the strain and fatigue of the birth only hours earlier, her breasts swelling with the fluid that preceded her milk, she leaned against the door frame for support. A faint whimper from beneath her partially buttoned coat made her arms move in the rocking motion instinctive to mothers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She looked in the mirror. What a mess! she thought. Her face was blotchy and her eyes swollen. There was nothing more she could do about her eyes, she decided, but her long, delicate fingers moved deftly as she dabbed base makeup over her face to cover the evidence of her tears.
  She had taken a parish bulletin from St. Clement's, and now she dug it out of the pocket of her jogging jacket. Yes, she saw there was a five o'clock Mass. She would attend it, but she would arrive a little late. That way the monsignor wouldn't have a chance to try to speak to her. Then she would slip out again before it was over.
  As she twisted her dark-blond hair, gathering it up at the back of her head, she wondered if the baby had grown to look even a little bit like her.
  The cheery expression disappeared from Baker's face. "I happened to have overheard what you just said about speaking to the witnesses, Mrs. Meehan," he snapped. "I'll be happy to give you their phone number. You'll find them to be perfectly responsible people." He fished in his pocket. "As a matter of fact, I have their card."
  Baker handed Alvirah the card, then turned and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him with a bang. Both women turned and watched as the door slowly swung open again.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When the last notes died away, there was a hush. Then Willy leaned over and whispered, "Alvirah, honey, it's too bad I didn't bring my sheet music. They could have used a little piano accompaniment. What do you think?"