conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first paragraph for a book with the title 'Blood of the Fold'. End with the sentence ' She could feel wetness on her eyelids, but her lips were so dry she had to lick them, for fear they would crack and bleed.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Blood of the Fold
  At the exact same instant, the six women suddenly awoke, the lingering sound of their screams echoing around the cramped officer's cabin. In the darkness, Sister Ulicia could hear the others gasping to catch their breath. She swallowed, trying to slow her own panting, and immediately winced at the raw pain in her throat. She could feel wetness on her eyelids, but her lips were so dry she had to lick them, for fear they would crack and bleed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: With his nightmare gaze on Ulicia, he reached under the table and dragged a shapely woman out by her blond hair. She winced in pain as his powerful fist lifted her. She was dressed the same as the others. Through the sheer fabric, Ulicia could see older, yellow bruises, and newer, purple ones. There was a bruise on her right cheek, and a fresh, huge, blue-black one on her left jaw, with a line of four cuts left by his rings.
  It was Christabel, one of the Sisters of the Dark Ulicia had left at the palace. The Sisters of the Dark at the palace were to have laid the groundwork for their return. Apparently, they now laid the groundwork for Jagang's arrival. What he could want with the Palace of the Prophets, she couldn't fathom.
  Sister Christabel scurried around the table to stand before Jagang. She quickly smoothed her disheveled hair, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before bowing. "How may I serve you, Excellency?"
  She bowed. "Yes, Excell—" She froze, realizing what he had just said. Ulicia could see her legs trembling as she straightened, but still, the woman dared say nothing.
  He gestured with the pheasant leg to the two women sitting before him on the bearskin, and they scrambled away. Jagang smiled that terrifying smirk of his. "Good-bye, Christabel."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Zedd unfastened the collar and held it out for them, working the two halves on the hinge. "Yes it does. See? Mighty fine work, isn't it? A person can't even see the workings because they're so delicate. Master workmanship. Don't see things like this anymore."
  He looked from eye to eye. "Some say it's a tracer cloud, hooked on a man by a wizard." Zedd was satisfied by the gasps.
  Zedd made a show of looking about at the other tables before he spoke. "To track him, and know where he goes."
  Goodkind was born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska, where he also attended art school, one of his many interests on the way to becoming a writer. Besides a career in wildlife art, he has been a cabinet maker and violin maker, and he has done restoration work on rare and exotic artifacts from around the world—each with its own story to tell, he says.
  While continuing to maintain the northeastern home he built with his own hands, in recent years he and his wife, Jeri, have created a second home in the desert Southwest, where he now spends the majority of his time.