conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled Before the Poison about Brilliant, Globe, Mail with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Brilliant. ( Globe and Mail on Before the Poison )
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first two paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Before the Poison
  See how easily distracted I am by memories of Laura? These are the blind alleys I suddenly find myself wandering down, the cul-de-sacs of lost love, where the grief waits with its sharp blade, jabs at me all of a sudden like a mugger in the night and makes my eyes burn. These are the deserted plazas of the heart, my very own boulevard of broken dreams. Get a grip, you sad old bastard, get a grip.
  I was standing outside the bank a couple of hours later, getting in the way of the people queuing for the cash dispensers, when I saw Heather Barlow.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I must have blushed because she laughed and touched my arm. 'Don't worry. I'm only teasing. I won't molest you. I just think it would be really cool to go and see a movie with the guy who wrote the music, that's all. Won't you indulge me? Just this once.'
  Heather laughed and dug her fork into the salad. 'That's it. Movies. Or the expectation of movies. Anyway, I managed to get away with my virtue intact, you'll be glad to hear.'
  I laughed. One of the things I liked about Heather, I realised, was that she made me laugh. Laura was the only other woman I had known who had been able to do that. Conventional wisdom has it that women like men who make them laugh, but I can vouch that it works the other way, too. 'I didn't doubt it for a moment,' I said. 'But did you get any useful information? Did he give up the goods for a... for a what?'
  We nursed our cappuccinos and discussed the film. Heather remained genuine in her enthusiasm, and I was just as genuine in my disdain, though I toned it down for her sake. She didn't know that I'd written most of the music by rote in a haze of alcohol, pills and self-loathing after Laura's death, and she didn't need to know.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Then Matron urged us to think of our families, present or future. Their world was not our world, she said, but it was a world we had fought for; there was not one point of contact between those at home and those who had done what we had done, but we had done it for them. There was nothing they could understand about what we had been through and how it had affected us. If she was about to tell us not to talk about our experiences, I thought, then she had no need to bother. I think most of us would rather not. But it was more than that.
  Whatever our war experiences, Matron concluded, it was now our God-given duty to be young ladies, housewives, sweethearts and mothers again, not unrecognisable figures slithering around in the mud and blood of a casualty clearing station, or lying in the filth and squalor of a Japanese POW camp. Our loved ones did not want to hear or know about these things. If they did, they would never look at us in the same way again; we would become pariahs.
  We had a role and a duty to perform in society, and in order to do so, we had to put the last five years behind us and mould ourselves into the image of the feminine again: the wife, the mother. That was what our world needed now, and that was our role in it. The men would get all the glory, as usual, Matron said, to knowing smiles all around, and this time we should let them have it. I glanced at Dorothy beside me, and she rolled her eyes. I smiled.
  Later, after the farewells and the promises to write, clutching my small suitcase in one hand and my travel pass in the other, I walked through the park in the rain towards the railway station. Raindrops dripped from the bare branches. What a very English November day it was, I thought, and I felt a great surge of love for my country, for the future. Perhaps Matron was right. We needed to lock the memories away and get on with our lives. We needed to rebuild, to look forward, not behind.
  The train stood waiting at the platform, puffing steam into the drizzle. I settled back in my seat to watch the landscape go by and opened my journal. In a few hours I will arrive at Darlington. Ernest will be waiting for me at the station. We will get into the car and drive back to Kilnsgate, to home. There, my future will begin.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There, my future will begin.. We will get into the car and drive back to Kilnsgate, to home. Ernest will be waiting for me at the station. In a few hours I will arrive at Darlington. I settled back in my seat to watch the landscape go by and opened my journal.
  The train stood waiting at the platform, puffing steam into the drizzle. We needed to rebuild, to look forward, not behind. We needed to lock the memories away and get on with our lives. Perhaps Matron was right. What a very English November day it was, I thought, and I felt a great surge of love for my country, for the future. Raindrops dripped from the bare branches.
  Later, after the farewells and the promises to write, clutching my small suitcase in one hand and my travel pass in the other, I walked through the park in the rain towards the railway station. I smiled. I glanced at Dorothy beside me, and she rolled her eyes. The men would get all the glory, as usual, Matron said, to knowing smiles all around, and this time we should let them have it. That was what our world needed now, and that was our role in it.
  We had a role and a duty to perform in society, and in order to do so, we had to put the last five years behind us and mould ourselves into the image of the feminine again: the wife, the mother. If they did, they would never look at us in the same way again; we would become pariahs. Our loved ones did not want to hear or know about these things.
  Whatever our war experiences, Matron concluded, it was now our God-given duty to be young ladies, housewives, sweethearts and mothers again, not unrecognisable figures slithering around in the mud and blood of a casualty clearing station, or lying in the filth and squalor of a Japanese POW camp. But it was more than that. I think most of us would rather not. If she was about to tell us not to talk about our experiences, I thought, then she had no need to bother. There was nothing they could understand about what we had been through and how it had affected us. Their world was not our world, she said, but it was a world we had fought for; there was not one point of contact between those at home and those who had done what we had done, but we had done it for them.Then Matron urged us to think of our families, present or future