conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Jeeves, Blandings, Castle with the genre: Literature & Fiction, British & Irish?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Pelican at Blandings'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Pelican at Blandings
  Two o'clock sharp, she had told Howard Chesney on the telephone that afternoon, and he had said 'Okay, two o'clock sharp. Right', but though it was now long past the hour a glance from the window showed that he was not at his post. In the world outside there were rabbits, weasels, moths, bats and even the white owl of which Gally had spoken to John, but no Howard Chesney. Beach would have felt that this was just what the grounds of Blandings Castle needed to bring them to perfection. Vanessa was unable to share such a sentiment. She had no deep affection for Howard Chesney, but his presence was essential to her plan of campaign, and his absence bred the suspicion that all was not well.
  Gradually the suspicion grew, and at last the clock over the stables crushed any faint hope that might have lingered by chiming the half hour. With the dull weight of failure on her which all good organizers dislike so much, she turned to break the news to Wilbur.
  She was a good loser. She saw eye to eye with the philosopher, whoever he was, who first deplored the futility of crying over spilt milk. This, she told herself, was just one of those things, and nothing to be done about it. Where Howard Chesney was concerned, she had no hard feelings. She knew that only some misadventure on a major scale could have prevented him coming to collect a thousand dollars. All she felt was sympathy for Wilbur's disappointment.
  She stood watching him, and was surprised at the wave of maternal tenderness that surged over her. His best friends would not have claimed that Wilbur, asleep in a chair with his head lolling to one side, was a feast for the eye, but for her the spectacle had an appeal that grew stronger with every minute that passed. She felt that she could have stayed drinking it in for ever.
  This, however, in the circumstances was scarcely advisable. No invasion of their privacy had occurred as yet, but there was no saying how long this happy state of things would last. Reluctantly she became her practical self again. Attaching herself to his ginger hair, she gave it a pull.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is another paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Lord Emsworth seemed to expand like a balloon. Galahad, he was thinking, could always be relied on to appreciate one's difficulties and make valuable suggestions for dealing with them.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: This naturally jarred the Wooster soul a good deal at the moment, but reviewing the dead past now I could see that my guardian angel had been on the job all right and had known what was good for me. I mean, radiant beauty is all very well, but it isn't everything. What sort of a married life would I have had with the little woman perpetually going on protest marches and expecting me to be at her side throwing bottles at the constabulary? It made me shudder to think what I might have let myself in for if I had been a shade more fascinating. Taught me a lesson, that did - viz. never to lose faith in your guardian angel, because these guardian angels are no fools.
  Whatever these bimbos were protesting about, it was obviously something they were taking to heart rather. By the time I had got into their midst not a few of them had decided that animal cries were insufficient to meet the case and were saying it with bottles and brickbats, and the police who were present in considerable numbers seemed not to be liking it much. It must be rotten being a policeman on these occasions. Anyone who has got a bottle can throw it at you, but if you throw it back, the yell of police brutality goes up and there are editorials in the papers next day.
  But the mildest cop can stand only so much, and it seemed to me, for I am pretty shrewd in these matters, that in about another shake of a duck's tail hell's foundations would be starting to quiver. I hoped nobody would scratch my paint.
  Leading the procession, I saw with surprise, was a girl I knew. In fact, I had once asked her to marry me. Her name was Vanessa Cook, and I had met her at a cocktail party, and such was her radiant beauty that it was only a couple of minutes after I had brought her a martini and one of those little sausages on sticks that I was saying to myself, 'Bertram, this is a good thing. Push it along.' And in due season I suggested a merger. But apparently I was not the type, and no business resulted.
  This naturally jarred the Wooster soul a good deal at the moment, but reviewing the dead past now I could see that my guardian angel had been on the job all right and had known what was good for me. I mean, radiant beauty is all very well, but it isn't everything. What sort of a married life would I have had with the little woman perpetually going on protest marches and expecting me to be at her side throwing bottles at the constabulary? It made me shudder to think what I might have let myself in for if I had been a shade more fascinating. Taught me a lesson, that did - viz. never to lose faith in your guardian angel, because these guardian angels are no fools.