conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about London, English, Reed with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Last Voyage of the Valentina'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Last Voyage of the Valentina
  When an elegant French antiques dealer dies in her adopted hometown of New York City, her son, Misha, is astonished to learn that she owned a priceless, uncataloged Titian known as The Gypsy Madonna. Misha wonders how she could have kept such a secret from him, bonded inseparably as they were since his childhood in German-occupied France. Now with the discovery of the Titian masterpiece and the loss of his mother, he must at last journey back to Bordeaux to uncover the truth about The Gypsy Madonna\-- and himself.
  It all began on a snowy January day. January is bleak in New York. The trees are bare, the festivities over, the Christmas tree lights taken down for another year. The wind that races down the streets is edged with ice. I walked briskly with my hands in my coat pockets. Head down, eyes to the ground, lost in thought: nothing particular, just the business of the day. I tried not to think of my mother. I am an avoider. If something gives me pain I don't think about it. If I don't think about it, it isn't happening. If I can't see it, it isn't there, right? My mother had been dead a week. The funeral was over. Only the journalists pestered like flies, determined to find out why an uncatalogued, unknown Titian of such importance had only now come to light. Didn't they understand that I knew as little as they did? If they were grappling in the dark, I was floundering in space.
  I reached my office. A redbrick building in the West Village with an antique shop on the ground floor. Zebedee Hapstein, the eccentric clockmaker, toiled against a discordant orchestra of ticking in his workshop next door. I fumbled in my pocket for the key. My fingers were numb. I had forgotten to wear gloves. For a moment I looked at my reflection in the glass. The haunted face of a man old beyond his years stared grimly back at me. I shook off my grief and walked inside, brushing the snow from my shoulders. Stanley wasn't in yet, nor was Esther who answered the shop telephone and cleaned the place. With leaden feet I climbed the stairs. The building was dim and smelled of old wood and furniture polish. I opened the door to my office and stepped inside. There, sitting quietly on a chair, was a tramp.
  I nearly jumped out of my skin. Angrily, I demanded to know what he was doing there and how he had got in. The window was closed and the front door had been locked. For an instant I was afraid. Then he turned to me, his mouth curling into a half smile. I was at once struck by the extraordinary color of his eyes that shone out from his cracked and bearded face, like aquamarine set in rock. I had a sudden sense of déjà vu but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He wore a felt hat and sat hunched in a heavy coat. I noticed his shoes were dirty and scuffed with a hole wearing through at one toe. He looked me up and down appraisingly and I felt my fury mount at his impertinence.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Finally, the door opened, and Kate appeared in a cashmere dressing gown, a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand, cigarette in the other. Her face was tearstained, mascara smeared over blotchy skin, her spiky brown hair pulled off her face with an Hermès scarf. She looked like a little girl in her wretchedness.
  She wasn't the only real friend. There in the sitting room sat Letizia and Candace, apparently as bewildered as she was.
  Angelica sank into a chair. "If I'd known you two were here, I wouldn't have bothered. Olivier will be furious if I'm late for dinner."
  At last Kate returned with the bottle of wine. "Couldn't find the bottle opener," she said with a drunken giggle, dragging on her cigarette. "You're probably wondering why you're all here."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ". "You're probably wondering why you're all here. "Couldn't find the bottle opener," she said with a drunken giggle, dragging on her cigarette."
  At last Kate returned with the bottle of wine. Olivier will be furious if I'm late for dinner. "If I'd known you two were here, I wouldn't have bothered.
  Angelica sank into a chair. There in the sitting room sat Letizia and Candace, apparently as bewildered as she was.
  She wasn't the only real friend. She looked like a little girl in her wretchedness. Her face was tearstained, mascara smeared over blotchy skin, her spiky brown hair pulled off her face with an Hermès scarf.Finally, the door opened, and Kate appeared in a cashmere dressing gown, a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand, cigarette in the other
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Arthur Hamblin had taught his daughter everything he knew about bees, from their daily care to the tinctures of propolis he made to cure sore throats and other complaints. Beekeeping had been their shared love and tending the hives and extracting the honey had brought them close, compounded by the fact that they only had each other in the world. Grace remembered her father fondly every time she saw a bee. His kind face would surface in her mind with the gentle humming of the creatures he had so loved, and sometimes she could even hear his voice as if he were whispering into her ear: 'Don't forget to check that the bees are capping off honey in the lower supers.' Or: 'Can you see the bees guarding the entrance? There must be a threat. Wasps or robber bees perhaps. I wonder which it is.' Arthur Hamblin could talk about bees for hours and barely draw breath. Often he would talk to them, reciting his favourite poem, which Grace had heard so often she knew it by heart: Marriage, birth or buryin', News across the seas, All you're sad or merry in, You must tell the bees.
  Now as Grace looked inside the hive, the bees were settling in for the night. The temperature had dropped and they were sleepy. Time with her bees was time to be herself again, and time to remember.
  As she replaced the lid she sensed the familiar presence of someone standing close. She knew not to turn around, because the many times she had glanced behind her had revealed nothing but the wind and her own bewilderment. She knew to sense it and not to analyse it; after all, hers was an old house and Tekanasset was an island well known for ghosts. Even Big had stories to tell. The presence didn't frighten her; in fact, she felt strangely reassured, as if she had a secret friend no one else knew about. When she was younger she had confided in her mother, who she hoped was able to listen to her from Heaven. Nowadays, when she felt low or lonely, she'd come and talk to the bees and feel comforted by this ghost who gave out a loving energy and was perhaps as lonely as she was.
  Recently she had begun to sink more often into her former life. It was as if with the passing of the years her regrets grew stronger and her attachment to her memories more desperate. For the last twenty-odd years she had thrown herself into motherhood, but Trixie was growing up and soon she would move away, and Grace would be left alone with Freddie and the fragile remains of their marriage.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about smiled, allowed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Arthur Hamblin had taught his daughter everything he knew about bees, from their daily care to the tinctures of propolis he made to cure sore throats and other complaints. Beekeeping had been their shared love and tending the hives and extracting the honey had brought them close, compounded by the fact that they only had each other in the world. Grace remembered her father fondly every time she saw a bee. His kind face would surface in her mind with the gentle humming of the creatures he had so loved, and sometimes she could even hear his voice as if he were whispering into her ear: 'Don't forget to check that the bees are capping off honey in the lower supers. ' Or: 'Can you see the bees guarding the entrance? There must be a threat. Wasps or robber bees perhaps. I wonder which it is. ' Arthur Hamblin could talk about bees for hours and barely draw breath. Often he would talk to them, reciting his favourite poem, which Grace had heard so often she knew it by heart: Marriage, birth or buryin', News across the seas, All you're sad or merry in, You must tell the bees. 
  Now as Grace looked inside the hive, the bees were settling in for the night. The temperature had dropped and they were sleepy. She smiled fondly and allowed her memories to ebb and flow like a vast sea of images and emotions. Time with her bees was time to be herself again, and time to remember. 
  As she replaced the lid she sensed the familiar presence of someone standing close. She knew not to turn around, because the many times she had glanced behind her had revealed nothing but the wind and her own bewilderment. She knew to sense it and not to analyse it; after all, hers was an old house and Tekanasset was an island well known for ghosts. Even Big had stories to tell. The presence didn't frighten her; in fact, she felt strangely reassured, as if she had a secret friend no one else knew about. When she was younger she had confided in her mother, who she hoped was able to listen to her from Heaven. Nowadays, when she felt low or lonely, she'd come and talk to the bees and feel comforted by this ghost who gave out a loving energy and was perhaps as lonely as she was. 
  Recently she had begun to sink more often into her former life. It was as if with the passing of the years her regrets grew stronger and her attachment to her memories more desperate. For the last twenty-odd years she had thrown herself into motherhood, but Trixie was growing up and soon she would move away, and Grace would be left alone with Freddie and the fragile remains of their marriage.