conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a story with the title 'Death at La Fenice'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Death at La Fenice
  Whatever answer Brunetti might have given was cut short by Antonia's return. She asked if they wanted fruit or cake for dessert. Nervously, they both said they would forgo dessert and have coffee instead. She didn't like it, but she cleared the table.
  Padovani gave him a strange glance, having long since realized how little any of this had to do with the investigation of Wellauer's death. But that could hardly be enough to stop him from telling what he knew. After all, gossip's greatest charm was its utter superfluity. 'Very little. I mean, there's not much that anyone knows for sure. She seems always to have been of this persuasion, but almost nothing is known about her personal life before she came here.'
  At this point, Antonia returned with the coffees, bringing with her two small glasses of grappa, which she told them were offered with the compliments of the restaurant. Though neither of them wanted the fiery liquid, they made a show of sipping at it and praising its quality. She moved off, suspicious, and Brunetti caught her looking back at them from the door of the kitchen, as if she expected them to pour the grappa into their shoes.
  Antonia sailed past them, carrying coffees to the next table, and Brunetti signalled to her, mimed writing the check. She nodded.
  The intercity train made its way slowly across the causeway that joined Venice to the mainland and was soon passing to the right of the industrial horror of Marghera. Like a person who cannot keep from prodding an aching tooth with his tongue, Brunetti failed to look away from the forest of cranes and smokestacks and the miasma of filthy air that drifted back across the waters of the laguna towards the city from which he had come.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The humidity had worsened the smell of cat; the cold sharpened it. The dead plants in the courtyard now lay under a blanket of fog. He knocked at the door, knocked again more loudly, and heard her call out from the other side. 'Who is it?'
  Again he listened to the slow, angry rasp of metal on metal as she pulled back the heavy bolts that secured the door. She pulled it towards her. The sharp increase in humidity forced her to give it an upward tug in the middle of its arc to lift it from the uneven floor. Still wearing the overcoat, though it was now buttoned tight, she didn't bother to ask him what he wanted. She stepped back enough to allow him to enter, then slammed the door behind him. Again she bolted it securely before turning to lead him down the narrow passageway. In the kitchen, he went and sat near the stove, and she stopped to kick the rags back into place beneath the door.
  She shuffled to her chair and collapsed into it, to be immediately enveloped in the waiting scarves and shawls.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At eight the next morning, just as ordered, Brunetti placed his report on Vice-Questore Patta's desk, where it sat until his superior officer arrived at his office, just past eleven. When, after returning three personal phone calls and reading through the financial newspaper, the vice-questore brought himself to read the report, he found it both interesting and illuminating:
  Patta glanced up from the report, which he appeared to be committing to memory. 'Yes, yes. That will be all.'
  Seven months later, a letter arrived, addressed to Brunetti at the Questura. His attention was caught by the stamps, two lilac rectangles with a delicate tracery of calligraphy flowing down their sides. Below each was printed, 'People's Republic of China'. He knew no one there.
  There was no return address on the envelope. He tore it open and from it slid a Polaroid photo of a jewelled crown. A sense of scale was missing, but if it had been designed for a human to wear, then the stones that encircled the central jewel must have been the size of pigeons' eggs. Rubies? No other stone he could think of so resembled blood. The central stone, massive and square-cut, could only have been a diamond.
  He flipped the photo over to the back and read: 'Here is a part of the beauty I have returned to.' It was signed, 'B. Lynch'. There was no other message. Nothing else was in the envelope.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Nothing else was in the envelope. When, after returning three personal phone calls and reading through the financial newspaper, the vice-questore brought himself to read the report, he found it both interesting and illuminating:
  Patta glanced up from the report, which he appeared to be committing to memory. 'Yes, yes. That will be all.'
  Seven months later, a letter arrived, addressed to Brunetti at the Questura. His attention was caught by the stamps, two lilac rectangles with a delicate tracery of calligraphy flowing down their sides. Below each was printed, 'People's Republic of China'. He knew no one there.
  There was no return address on the envelope. He tore it open and from it slid a Polaroid photo of a jewelled crown. A sense of scale was missing, but if it had been designed for a human to wear, then the stones that encircled the central jewel must have been the size of pigeons' eggs. Rubies? No other stone he could think of so resembled blood. The central stone, massive and square-cut, could only have been a diamond.
  He flipped the photo over to the back and read: 'Here is a part of the beauty I have returned to.' It was signed, 'B. Lynch'. There was no other message.At eight the next morning, just as ordered, Brunetti placed his report on Vice-Questore Patta's desk, where it sat until his superior officer arrived at his office, just past eleven.