conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about York, Times, Book with the genre: Humor & Entertainment, Humor?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'Time Will Darken It'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Time Will Darken It
  When the door opened and the men filed out, Miss Ewing was seated at her desk and the typewriter was thrashing out so many legal words a minute that no one realized how quiet the outer office had been for the last hour and three-quarters. They said nothing to Miss Ewing about the offer that had just been laid before them, but the sound of their feet on the worn stairs was a dead giveaway. It was not beautiful, like the sound of an evening party breaking up but it had its own excitement and fear of the dark.
  Faced with a circle of empty chairs, Austin and Mr. Potter sat down to appreciate the drop in tension.
  Mr. Potter reached for his soiled Panama hat. "I'd better be getting along now," he said. "I told the ladies I'd be home by four. Mrs. Potter will be wondering what's become of me. Of course, we expect to pay you for any legal work that you do."
  In spite of failing mental powers, which made old Mr. Ellis forget sometimes what he had started to say, he knew a surprising amount about the boll weevil. He also behaved very childishly, lost his temper the second time that Mr. Potter's plan was explained to him, shouted at his grandson, and stalked out of the parlour of the farmhouse. During the party which Mary Ellis gave for the Potters that evening, Mr. Ellis remained upstairs in his room, sulking. Potter, watching the procession from the Ellises' porch, said "You know, I miss the darkies. They're the chief thing I miss up North. Rachel's little girl that Cousin Martha has in every now and then to help serve—I've grown so attached to her. If it were only possible, I'd take her home with me in my purse.... When you were a child, Mrs. Danforth, did you wake up expecting that overnight the house you went to sleep in had become a palace with marble floors and footmen to wait on you, and you had to put on a pink satin ball dress to eat breakfast in? I go into the kitchen sometimes to boil the water for a cup of tea and I see Thelma has a piece of asparagus fern and two half-dead daisies in a jelly glass by the kitchen window, and I want to say to her 'Strange as it may seem, I was a little girl once. I remember what it was like.' And I do remember, Mrs. Danforth, and I'm sure you do, too. I had tasks set for me, and all that, but what I liked to do best was to sit with my hands in my lap, thinking about all the wonderful things that were some day going to happen to me. My hair was in two braids down my back and there was a dreadful time when I thought I was going to have big feet, but it was only that they were growing and the rest of me hadn't started yet...."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Mrs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Time Will Darken It
  When the door opened and the men filed out, Miss Ewing was seated at her desk and the typewriter was thrashing out so many legal words a minute that no one realized how quiet the outer office had been for the last hour and three-quarters. They said nothing to Miss Ewing about the offer that had just been laid before them, but the sound of their feet on the worn stairs was a dead giveaway. It was not beautiful, like the sound of an evening party breaking up but it had its own excitement and fear of the dark. 
  Faced with a circle of empty chairs, Austin and Mr. Potter sat down to appreciate the drop in tension. 
  Mr. Potter reached for his soiled Panama hat. "I'd better be getting along now," he said. "I told the ladies I'd be home by four. Mrs. Potter will be wondering what's become of me. Of course, we expect to pay you for any legal work that you do. "
  In spite of failing mental powers, which made old Mr. Ellis forget sometimes what he had started to say, he knew a surprising amount about the boll weevil. He also behaved very childishly, lost his temper the second time that Mr. Potter's plan was explained to him, shouted at his grandson, and stalked out of the parlour of the farmhouse. During the party which Mary Ellis gave for the Potters that evening, Mr. Ellis remained upstairs in his room, sulking. 
  Mrs. Potter, watching the procession from the Ellises' porch, said "You know, I miss the darkies. They're the chief thing I miss up North. Rachel's little girl that Cousin Martha has in every now and then to help serve—I've grown so attached to her. If it were only possible, I'd take her home with me in my purse.... When you were a child, Mrs. Danforth, did you wake up expecting that overnight the house you went to sleep in had become a palace with marble floors and footmen to wait on you, and you had to put on a pink satin ball dress to eat breakfast in? I go into the kitchen sometimes to boil the water for a cup of tea and I see Thelma has a piece of asparagus fern and two half-dead daisies in a jelly glass by the kitchen window, and I want to say to her 'Strange as it may seem, I was a little girl once. I remember what it was like. ' And I do remember, Mrs. Danforth, and I'm sure you do, too. I had tasks set for me, and all that, but what I liked to do best was to sit with my hands in my lap, thinking about all the wonderful things that were some day going to happen to me. My hair was in two braids down my back and there was a dreadful time when I thought I was going to have big feet, but it was only that they were growing and the rest of me hadn't started yet.... "
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Austin's glance strayed to the papers on his desk, and then returned to Miss Ewing. "When would you want to leave?" he asked.
  She stopped talking and looked at him with such a strange pleading in her eyes that, half in fright, he started to get up out of his chair.
  She broke into a fresh storm of weeping, and Austin got up from his chair and went around the desk and put his hands on her thin shoulders to comfort her.
  Austin left her weeping in the chair that was reserved for people who came to inquire into their rights under the Law, and went out into the outer office and called a cab. When it came, Miss Ewing put her hat and coat on, and took one last wild hopeless look at her cluttered desk. Austin helped her down the stairs and told the Mathein boy who was driving his father's hack to take her home. Then he went back into his office, closed the door, and called Dr. Seymour.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She moved slowly and carefully, out from under the cover, being careful even in her anger not to waken him.... Not that she was afraid of him any longer, but she had to be alone, to think, to decide what she would do when she got her strength back. Because she wouldn't stay in the house with him a day longer than she had to. She would take the children and Rachel and find some place where they could live. It probably wouldn't be comfortable and beautiful like this house. They'd probably have to live in some little flat downtown, over a store, but in the summer-time she could rent a cottage at the Chautauqua grounds so that the children would have a place to play outdoors, and they would manage somehow. They would be independent, and free at last to make of their lives something decent and brave, and when the children got old enough to look after themselves, she could go to Chicago and find a job there. Rachel had managed, and what Rachel could do, she could.
  How long Martha King sat in the rocking chair by the front window in the guest-room, with her robe drawn around her, planning, she had no idea. She looked out at the street and saw the street lamp as the life she had been meant to lead and the circle of light cast by it as the place she must get to. Drunk with certainty, with finality, with decision, when the grandfather's clock in the downstairs hall struck one, she went into the room where the baby's crib was. The nurse was lying on her back snoring and did not waken when Martha King picked up the baby and carried it into the guest-room where she sat holding it, the burden that had so little weight, that was no burden at all.
  The baby did not waken, though it stirred occasionally and she felt the hands pushing for a second against her side. She examined the baby's face by the light of the street lamp: so small and helpless, so much in need of protection against the cruelty of the world. She would bring him up not to be nice, not to be polite, not to make the best of things, but in full knowledge of what life is, to make his own way, fight for what he wanted, and above all else to feel. To be angry when he was angry, and when he was happy, to bring the house down with his joy. All the things that Austin had failed to be. This child would have a chance. She would make it possible. It would be so.
  She put the child back in the crib, and because it was cold, and she was not well and there was, after all, no place else to go, she got back into bed and lay there, with her eyes wide open, looking at the reflection of the street light on the ceiling.
  Austin stirred, and put his arm across her, and she took hold of it, by the wrist, and removed it, but when she moved away from him, towards the outer edge of the bed, he followed again in his sleep, and curled around her in a way that made her want to shout at him, and beat his face with her fists. She pushed the arm away, roughly this time, but he still did not waken. The arm had a life of its own. All the rest of him, his body and his soul, were asleep. But the arm was awake, and came across her, and the hand settled on her heart, and she let it stay there for a moment, thinking how hard and heavy it was compared to the child she had been holding, how importunate, how demanding; how it was no part of her and never would be, insisting on a satisfaction, even in sleep, that she could not give. She started to push it away once more but her own arms were bound to the bed. Only her mind was awake, able to act, to hate. And then suddenly the delicate gold chain of awareness, no stronger than its weakest link, gave way. Circled by the body next to her, enclosed in warmth, held by the arm that knew (even though the man it belonged to did not), Martha King was asleep.