conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a plot for a book about Dying, February, Stella entitled No More Dying Then.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No More Dying Then: On a stormy February afternoon, little Stella Rivers disappears and is never seen again.\nThen, on a warm October day, five-year-old John Lawrence fails to come home, and evil, mad, taunting letters begin, which make the worst, unspoken imaginings a brutal reality.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.. Start with the sentence 'No More Dying Then
  When he got back from London he had phoned Burden's house'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No More Dying Then
  When he got back from London he had phoned Burden's house. He needed to discuss that interview with someone and he thought too that this might be a way of reawakening Burden's interest. But Grace Woodville had told him her brother-in-law was out, she didn't know where.
  Neither man had a squeaky voice or even a voice Wexford could remember hearing before. They denied having passed the news on to anyone and said they had discussed it only with each other. Wexford supposed that routine demanded an interview with Mrs. Thetford. Monday would be time enough for that.
  She got up, still without answering, and began to dress, but not in the clothes she had taken off when she and Burden had come into the bedroom. He watched her hungrily, but puzzled as he always was by nearly every facet of her behaviour. She had pulled over her head a long black dress, very sleek and tight. Burden didn't know whether it was old, a garment of her aunt's, or the latest fashion. You couldn't tell these days. Over her shoulders and around her waist she wrapped a long scarf of orange and blue and green, so stiff and encrusted with embroidery that it crackled as she handled it.
  Burden was dazzled and fascinated and appalled. She danced across the room, drawing out the scarf and holding it above her head. The jewels rang like little bells. Then she stopped, gave a short abrupt laugh, and ran to him, kneeling at his feet.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She smiled, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. He saw that she really didn't understand him at all, his need to be respectable, to put a good face on things. They didn't speak the same language.
  It was Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs. Mitchell, that creature of routine, was cleaning her landing window. While she talked she clutched a pink duster in one hand and a bottle of pink cleaning fluid in the other and, because she refused to sit down, Wexford couldn't either.
  Perhaps he had. Wexford left Mrs. Mitchell to her window-cleaning and crossed the swings field. The year was far too advanced now for any children to play there and there would be no more freak summers. The roundabout looked as if it had never spun on its scarlet axis and mould had begun to grow on the seesaw. Hardly a leaf remained on the trees, oak and ash and sycamore, which grew between the field and Mill Lane. He touched the lower branches and fancied that here and there he could see where a twig had been snapped off. Then, in a more ungainly fashion, he was sure, than the leaf-picker and his young companion, he scrambled down the bank.
  Briskly he walked the length of the lane, telling himself it was as much for his health's sake as for duty. He hadn't expected to find anyone at home in the rented cottage but Harry Wild's friend was off work with a cold. Leaving again after a quarter of an hour, Wexford was afraid his visit had only served to raise the man's temperature, so heated had he been on the subject of Rushworth, a far from ideal landlord. Unless the tenant's account was exaggerated, it appeared that the whole Rushworth family was in the habit of entering the cottage, helping themselves to garden produce and occasionally removing small pieces of furniture for which they substituted pencilled notes of explanation. They had retained a key of their own and the tenant paid so low a rent that he was afraid to expostulate. At any rate, Wexford now knew the identity of the boy who had been seen leaving the cottage that February afternoon. Beyond a doubt, it had been Paul Rushworth.
  The day had been dull and overcast and now evening was closing in, although it was scarcely five. Wexford felt a first few drops of rain. On just such a day and at much this time Stella had followed the road he was taking, quickening her steps perhaps, wishing she had more to protect her than a thin riding jacket. Or had she even come so far back towards Stowerton? Had her journey—and her life—taken her no further than the cottage he had just left?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He saw that she really didn't understand him at all, his need to be respectable, to put a good face on things. They didn't speak the same language.
  It was Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs. Mitchell, that creature of routine, was cleaning her landing window. While she talked she clutched a pink duster in one hand and a bottle of pink cleaning fluid in the other and, because she refused to sit down, Wexford couldn't either.
  Perhaps he had. Wexford left Mrs. Mitchell to her window-cleaning and crossed the swings field. The year was far too advanced now for any children to play there and there would be no more freak summers. The roundabout looked as if it had never spun on its scarlet axis and mould had begun to grow on the seesaw. Hardly a leaf remained on the trees, oak and ash and sycamore, which grew between the field and Mill Lane. He touched the lower branches and fancied that here and there he could see where a twig had been snapped off. Then, in a more ungainly fashion, he was sure, than the leaf-picker and his young companion, he scrambled down the bank.
  Briskly he walked the length of the lane, telling himself it was as much for his health's sake as for duty. He hadn't expected to find anyone at home in the rented cottage but Harry Wild's friend was off work with a cold. Leaving again after a quarter of an hour, Wexford was afraid his visit had only served to raise the man's temperature, so heated had he been on the subject of Rushworth, a far from ideal landlord. Unless the tenant's account was exaggerated, it appeared that the whole Rushworth family was in the habit of entering the cottage, helping themselves to garden produce and occasionally removing small pieces of furniture for which they substituted pencilled notes of explanation. They had retained a key of their own and the tenant paid so low a rent that he was afraid to expostulate. At any rate, Wexford now knew the identity of the boy who had been seen leaving the cottage that February afternoon. Beyond a doubt, it had been Paul Rushworth.
  The day had been dull and overcast and now evening was closing in, although it was scarcely five. Wexford felt a first few drops of rain. On just such a day and at much this time Stella had followed the road he was taking, quickening her steps perhaps, wishing she had more to protect her than a thin riding jacket. Or had she even come so far back towards Stowerton? Had her journey—and her life—taken her no further than the cottage he had just left?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Probably, Angela Hathall had picked up a stranger. Probably, the stranger had killed her. It was that simple. Or was it? Wexford had his doubts—especially after meeting the loved ones Mrs. Hathall left behind.
  Her corpse is unremarkable, her handbag devoid of clues. But as Wexford tracks down the few people who knew Rhoda Comfrey before her death, he discovers that even an obscure soul harbors extraordinary secrets.
  A strange man lures a child into his car with the promise of sweets. An executive dines with an employee he fired with ghastly results. Eleven classic Rendell tales that conjure our darkest fears.
  Martin Urban has won a fortune and wants to share the wealth. But when he helps strangers in need, his good intentions become fatally entangled with the madness of a small-time assassin.
  Two things interest Stanley Manning: crosswords and his mother-in-law's money. When he gives death a helping hand, he gets more than he bargained for: a victim who may outsmart him from the grave.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Probably, Angela Hathall had picked up a stranger. Probably, the stranger had killed her. It was that simple. Or was it? Wexford had his doubts—especially after meeting the loved ones Mrs. Hathall left behind.
  Her corpse is unremarkable, her handbag devoid of clues. But as Wexford tracks down the few people who knew Rhoda Comfrey before her death, he discovers that even an obscure soul harbors extraordinary secrets.
  A strange man lures a child into his car with the promise of sweets. An executive dines with an employee he fired with ghastly results. Eleven classic Rendell tales that conjure our darkest fears.
  Martin Urban has won a fortune and wants to share the wealth. But when he helps strangers in need, his good intentions become fatally entangled with the madness of a small-time assassin.
  Two things interest Stanley Manning: crosswords and his mother-in-law's money.