conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Cassidy's Girl about San, Francisco, Chronicle with the genre: Literature & Fiction, United States.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "the author has an originality of naturalism... a creatively compelling vividness of detail." -- San Francisco Chronicle
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence ' He could damn well tell them.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cassidy's Girl
  It was raining hard in Philadelphia as Cassidy worked the bus through heavy traffic on Market Street. He hated the street on these busy Saturday nights, especially during April when the rain came down hard and the traffic cops were annoyed with the rain and took it out on cabbies and bus drivers. Cassidy sympathized with the traffic cops and when they glared and yelled, he only shrugged and gestured helplessly. If they had a tough corner to patrol, he had a tough bus to steer. It was really a miserable bus, old and sick, and its transmission was constantly complaining.
  The bus was one of three owned by a small company located on Arch Street. The three busses went north each day to Easton, then back again to Philadelphia. Back and forth between Easton and Philadelphia was a monotonous grind, but Cassidy needed the job badly, and a man with his background always found it difficult to obtain jobs.
  Aside from the pay, it was emotionally important for Cassidy to do this type of work. Keeping his eyes on the road and his mind on the wheel was a protective fence holding him back from internal as well as external catastrophe.
  The bus made a turn off Market Street, went up through the slashing rain to Arch, went into the depot. Cassidy climbed out, opened the door, stood there to help them down from the bus. He had the habit of studying their faces as they emerged, wondering what their thoughts were, and what their lives were made of. The old women and the girls, the frowning stout men with loose flesh hanging from their jaws, and the young men who gazed dully ahead as though seeing nothing. Cassidy looked at their faces and had an idea he could see the root of their trouble. It was the fact that they were ordinary people and they didn't know what real trouble was. He could tell them. He could damn well tell them.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cassidy rolled the bus away from the depot, took it west on Arch to Broad Street, made the right-hand turn sending the bus into the heavy morning traffic on Broad. A red light stopped the bus and Cassidy saw a stream of smoke drifting past his face. He turned and saw the long, thick cigar in Haney's mouth.
  Cassidy pointed to the printed sign above the windshield. He watched Haney pressing the lighted end of the cigar against the floor board. Then Haney brushed off the loose ash and gently placed the cigar in his breast pocket. Haney said, "Why no smoking?"
  The bus went weaving in and out through the thick crawling parade of automobiles and trucks going north on Broad Street. It was difficult, delicate weaving that demanded Cassidy's full concentration and constant manipulating of the air brakes. The automobiles, especially the smaller ones, had a habit of darting out in front of the bus, passing on the right, stopping suddenly in front of the bus, continually worrying it as though it were a huge clumsy whale and they were killer sharks snapping at its sides. The ride going north up Broad Street was always the worst headache of the Easton run, and it had a nerve-racking resemblance to the job of trying to put jagged thread through a needle.
  The automobiles were always making it miserable for him. There were times when he felt tempted to tag one of these pests and ruin a fender or two. The only nice feature about Broad Street in the early morning was the intersection at Roosevelt Boulevard where the heavy traffic came to an end.
  Cassidy passed the boulevard, sent the bus past a succession of green lights, turned onto York Road and passed the city line. Now it was easy driving and he had the bus going at forty, cruising smoothly on the wide white-concrete highway aiming at Jenkintown. Through the roar of the engine he could hear the chattering of the elderly ladies, the giggling and shouting and occasional whining of the children.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Through the roar of the engine he could hear the chattering of the elderly ladies, the giggling and shouting and occasional whining of the children. A red light stopped the bus and Cassidy saw a stream of smoke drifting past his face. He turned and saw the long, thick cigar in Haney's mouth.
  Cassidy pointed to the printed sign above the windshield. He watched Haney pressing the lighted end of the cigar against the floor board. Then Haney brushed off the loose ash and gently placed the cigar in his breast pocket. Haney said, "Why no smoking?"
  The bus went weaving in and out through the thick crawling parade of automobiles and trucks going north on Broad Street. It was difficult, delicate weaving that demanded Cassidy's full concentration and constant manipulating of the air brakes. The automobiles, especially the smaller ones, had a habit of darting out in front of the bus, passing on the right, stopping suddenly in front of the bus, continually worrying it as though it were a huge clumsy whale and they were killer sharks snapping at its sides. The ride going north up Broad Street was always the worst headache of the Easton run, and it had a nerve-racking resemblance to the job of trying to put jagged thread through a needle.
  The automobiles were always making it miserable for him. There were times when he felt tempted to tag one of these pests and ruin a fender or two. The only nice feature about Broad Street in the early morning was the intersection at Roosevelt Boulevard where the heavy traffic came to an end.
  Cassidy passed the boulevard, sent the bus past a succession of green lights, turned onto York Road and passed the city line. Now it was easy driving and he had the bus going at forty, cruising smoothly on the wide white-concrete highway aiming at Jenkintown.Cassidy rolled the bus away from the depot, took it west on Arch to Broad Street, made the right-hand turn sending the bus into the heavy morning traffic on Broad.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Then Haney was on the phone. At the other end of the line a police sergeant told him to talk more clearly. It was very difficult for Haney to talk clearly. He was gagging and sobbing.
  They had all left their tables and now they crowded around Haney and when it seemed that he couldn't stand on his feet they obligingly moved in to hold him upright at the phone. As Haney began to clarify his speech into the phone, Cassidy broke away from the group at the wall and looked for Mildred.
  He saw her sitting alone at a table near the rear window. She had an arm hooked over the back of the chair and she was just sitting there and relaxing. Cassidy took the chair at the other side of the table.
  Mildred shrugged. "I came back to the flat." She was playing with a burned-out matchstick, using the blackened end to trace some kind of a design on the table. She said, "I'm sorry I threw your clothes in the river."
  He wasn't looking at her. Something big and heavy was blocking his throat. He lowered his head to the side and bit very hard on his lip.