conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Canadian, Renaissance, Florence with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Gabriel's Inferno'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gabriel's Inferno
  The poet stood next to the bridge and watched as the young woman approached. The world ground to a near standstill as he remarked her wide, dark eyes and elegantly curled brown hair.
  At first he didn't recognize her. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her movements sure and graceful. Yet there was something about her face and figure that reminded him of the girl he'd fallen in love with long ago. They'd gone their separate ways, and he had always mourned her, his angel, his muse, his beloved Beatrice. Without her, his life had been lonely and small.
  As she approached him with her companions, he bowed his head and body in a chivalrous salute. He had no expectation that his presence would be acknowledged. She was both perfect and untouchable, a brown-eyed angel dressed in resplendent white, while he was older, world-weary and wanting.
  She had almost passed him when his downcast eyes caught sight of one of her slippers—a slipper that hesitated just in front of him. His heart beat a furious tattoo as he waited, breathless. A soft and gentle voice broke into his remembrances as she spoke to him kindly. His startled eyes flew to hers. For years and years he'd longed for this moment, dreamed of it even, but never had he imagined encountering her in such a serendipitous fashion. And never had he dared hope he would be greeted so sweetly.
  Caught off balance, he mumbled his pleasantries and allowed himself the indulgence of a smile—a smile that was returned to him tenfold by his muse. His heart swelled within him as the love he held for her multiplied and burned like an inferno in his chest.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'He cleared his throat'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He cleared his throat. "No. Part of my depression was caused by the drugs. Part of it was caused by—other factors in my life that I have tried to deal with. But you know as well as I that a suicidal person is a person who has lost hope. I found my hope when I found you."
  Julia carefully folded her linen napkin with shaking fingers and pushed her chair back from the table. "I'm glad you're not doing drugs, and I'm glad you're in recovery. But I won't get involved with an alcoholic. Life is too short to be bound to that kind of misery."
  He stared at her steadily, searching her eyes. "I agree. But if you were to spend time with me, you would realize that I am not an alcoholic. And I pledge not to get drunk anymore. It's unfortunate that I've only gotten drunk once in the past six months and you happened to witness it."
  A tear slid down her cheek, which she wiped away hastily. "You don't know me. You never knew me. You held Dante's Beatrice in your arms that night, the image from his writings and from Holiday's painting, not me."
  He placed his hands on either side of her shoulders and leaned closer. "Do I have to explain it? Didn't you feel it?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.. End with the sentence ')'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: After her shower, she stood in front of one of the vanities, drying her hair while Gabriel stood at the other. She found herself glancing over at him, watching as he carried out his shaving preparations with military precision. Finally, she gave up putting on lipstick and simply leaned against the sink, staring.
  He was still naked to the waist, the towel now low on his hips, as he painstakingly shaved in the classical style. His brilliant blue eyes narrowed in concentration behind his black glasses, his damp hair impeccably combed.
  Julia suppressed a laugh at the degree to which his quest for perfection was manifested. Gabriel used a shaving brush with a black wooden handle to mix European shaving soap into a thick lather. After spreading the foam on his face with the brush, he shaved using an antiquated safety razor. (For some professors, disposable razors simply aren't good enough.)
  Gabriel snorted and continued shaving. "I'm not so old-fashioned, or I wouldn't be making mad passionate love with you outside. And fantasizing about introducing you to some of my favorite positions from the Kama Sutra." He winked at her. "But I am a pretentious old bastard and a devil to live with. You'll have to tame me."
  Sylvain Reynard is a Canadian writer with an interest in Renaissance art and culture and an inordinate attachment to the city of Florence. (Parenthetically, it should be noted that the snarky narrator of "" was contracted to write this biographical description, and he can attest that SR is, in fact, real, and has an enviable collection of argyle socks.)
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gabriel's Inferno
  Lucia placed her glasses in a case, which she then tucked into her purse. "Enough of my troubles. Let me take you to lunch. I have reservations at Del Posto."
  She pushed back from her desk. "We have a lot of catching up to do. Is it true that Julianne told Don Wodehouse that the question he asked wasn't germane to her thesis?"
  He followed Lucia out of the office, proudly describing Julianne's presentation and the way she handled her questioners, including Professor Wodehouse of Magdalen College.
  Mr. Wasserstein was retired, but since he'd been Owen Davies's attorney from the time he penned a prenuptial agreement for him in 1961, he'd agreed to meet Gabriel at his former law firm.
  Gabriel looked at his watch. He had just enough time to make a quick call to Julianne from a pay phone before his meeting.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Julia's hand went to her abdomen. "There are several reasons. I'm worried they'll think I'm not serious enough and that Cecilia will drop me as a student."
  Katherine tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I'm always eager to fight injustice. Let them try to injure you. In fact, I have half a mind to accept Greg Matthews's offer to join his department just to ensure that they don't."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ". "There are several reasons. I'm worried they'll think I'm not serious enough and that Cecilia will drop me as a student."
  Katherine tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I'm always eager to fight injustice. Let them try to injure you. In fact, I have half a mind to accept Greg Matthews's offer to join his department just to ensure that they don't.Julia's hand went to her abdomen.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He clutched the case more closely under his arm, realizing that his illustrations were in need of a dry space. In the blink of an eye, he traveled down the side of the dome to a lower half dome, before running across the square and clambering up the side of an adjacent building. Soon he was on the roof of the Arciconfraternita della Misericordia.
  There was a time when he would have served the Arciconfraternita, joining in their mission of mercy, rather than running over it without a thought. But he hadn't exercised the gift of mercy since 1274. In his new form, the concept of mercy never entered his consciousness.
  He flew through the rain at great speed, heading toward the Ponte Vecchio, when the smell of blood filled his nostrils. There was more than one source, (or vintage as he called it), but the scent that attracted his attention was young and unaccountably sweet. It resurrected in him memories long forgotten. Instantly, he changed direction and increased his speed, moving toward the Ponte Santa Trinita. His black form was a blur against the night sky as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop.
  Other monsters moved in the darkness, from all parts of the city, racing toward the place where her innocent blood cried out from the ground.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He clutched the case more closely under his arm, realizing that his illustrations were in need of a dry space. In the blink of an eye, he traveled down the side of the dome to a lower half dome, before running across the square and clambering up the side of an adjacent building. Soon he was on the roof of the Arciconfraternita della Misericordia.
  There was a time when he would have served the Arciconfraternita, joining in their mission of mercy, rather than running over it without a thought. But he hadn't exercised the gift of mercy since 1274. In his new form, the concept of mercy never entered his consciousness.
  He flew through the rain at great speed, heading toward the Ponte Vecchio, when the smell of blood filled his nostrils. There was more than one source, (or vintage as he called it), but the scent that attracted his attention was young and unaccountably sweet. It resurrected in him memories long forgotten. Instantly, he changed direction and increased his speed, moving toward the Ponte Santa Trinita. His black form was a blur against the night sky as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop.