conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Award, Association, SUSANNA with the genre: Romance, Time Travel?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Rose Garden'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Rose Garden
  The second boy came out of the reverie in which he spent most of his time. "She's talking through her hat," he said with finality.
  Linnet's elder sister, Alice, who was eight and very responsible, looked tolerantly at Linnet. "She wasn't even there," Alice said. "I wasn't there, either," she added sensibly.
  Mary Ann looked at Bluebell, who might have been a murderess. "Bluebell only wanted to drown you so that she could save you," she said.
  The second boy emerged from his reverie for the second time, this time in a seizure of decisiveness. "Let's go," he said, so abruptly that Mary Ann thought they would all start running, but they still delayed, moving their feet in anticipation.
  Bluebell accepted her fate with dignity. She sank to the ground, composed her paws, and began to gaze coldly past the children's legs at something they couldn't see even if they tried.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: One of them called, "Goodbye, Bluebell," and poor Bluebell betrayed herself, starting to attention and staring after them, so tense and ready that for an instant she looked like the royal hunting dog she might have been and sometimes thought she was, in her sleep, when she stirred and seemed to run, while her gruff baying showed the course and splendor of her dreams.
  Mary Ann watched her running, going more and more slowly as she drew near to the little group waiting impatiently for her by the edge of the road. The road was busy with cars driving down to the beach and driving away from it. The golf course was dotted with figures that moved gravely and then stood still, gravely considering the next move. It is not a very funny game, Mary Ann thought. She wished she had had the courage to show Linnet that her hopes were not only all false but all wrong, considering that they were based on matches that were strictly forbidden. I should have told her, Mary Ann thought sadly. No matter how you look at it, I should have made her see. I don't think they light fireworks with matches, and even if they do they won't run out of them, and even if they run out, Linnet will be much too far out in the crowd to help and even if she got a chance to offer the matches, the matches are no good. One way or another, she is going to be disappointed. But false hope feels the same as real hope, and she is going to have a nice day dreaming. She's not going to have a chance at the fireworks, but that doesn't alter the fact that I should have given her a lecture on obedience and a demonstration of what happens to matches that have been lying out on the road in the rain.
  Mary Ann didn't care. It didn't matter. The room pleased her. She had grown fond of it. It was improbable and impermanent, and anyway it was only a stage designed for dialogue and gestures, with two small rooms right and left that were also full of doors and windows, and that were good only for lingering in, because they were anterooms, and as anterooms they resisted furniture the way a cat will resist a collar. Mary Ann had tried several arrangements, but at the moment both rooms were empty. The room with the mauve floor was empty, and the one with the shining dark-blue floor that led to the kitchen was empty. Anterooms were new in Mary Ann's life, and she wanted to have them always. She had not known that rooms could be so content with themselves. But she wondered what the original caretaker had thought when he first stepped into his brand-new living room, with its operatic humility and its need to be explained and its obvious falseness and its meager fate; because it did not even represent a dream but was only the echo of somebody's memory of romantic escape—to a hunting lodge, a mountain hideaway in Austria, or a secret place in Switzerland. It was a wistful conceit, and it stood here only because this site had presented itself and a house was needed here, for the caretaker. Someone must have thought, Since I cannot have that place at all, I might as well have it here, where I can at least look at it. The little house was not real. It was only a façade that stood at the end of somebody's lawn, and Mary Ann thought it did wonderfully for a person who wanted to live by the Atlantic Ocean but who only wanted to live there for a while.
  Late in the afternoon, Mary Ann went upstairs to sleep for a half hour, and she slept so late that she was awakened by the first of the explosions from the fireworks display. It was dusk outside her window, and a few minutes later, standing on the high ground of the children's lawn, where she had a good view of the aerial lights, she felt that the night was cold. A cool, quick wind blew in from the sea. She would build herself a fire when she went back into the house. Bluebell, dutiful, sat beside her, and stared as she did into the distance, where they saw the sky brighten after explosions they heard but could not see, and then they saw shooting stars, streams of brilliance, and dazzling ribbons of color that turned into balloons and garlands and cornucopias as they ascended, to hang for an instant at their highest point and then vanish in glory.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: One Saturday afternoon in January, several Januarys ago, the snow began falling, and it continued through the night, falling thickly until about midnight, when there was a brief clear interlude, with moonlight. The moon remained hidden, but her light flowed calmly in all directions, revealing an untenanted fairyland beside a flickering, wandering ocean. The thin line of wind-bent trees that separates the lawn of the giant's mansion from the golf course cast spidery shadows in the moonlight, and, nearer the dunes, the fragment of hedge where pink and white beach roses bloom in summer was a little bundle of darkness in the quiet expanse of snow. Only one light showed in the turreted clubhouse—it was their nightlight—and the giant's mansion was dark. The children were all asleep, and there was no one to notice when the moon withdrew her light and the snow began falling again, not to stop this time until after dawn.
  About nine o'clock in the morning, the entrance door of the giant's mansion opened and the seven children hurried carefully down their broad, snow-laden stone steps, between their two tame stone lions, and began racing about the pure and glowing surface of the lawn, which seemed even larger white. It was a big world, in the snow. The children tried to fill it, calling to one another, but their voices sounded thin and small, the way the trees looked, even with a round line of snow along each branch and twig. The snowy universe looked eternal, as though it might remain as it was forever, sea, sky, and snow, but the whirling children appeared and vanished and reappeared and vanished again, in a dazzling jigsaw of hands and feet and faces and arms and eyes and legs and bodies, running and falling and rolling and tumbling, catching at the air and at the snow, every movement separate and sudden and disconnected, and yet every movement part of one continuous movement, as though they had been playing that game for centuries. It was a Chinese battle, white on white, with porcelain dunes in the background. The children were snow children, except for their red faces and dark hair, and their cries were less fierce than the sea gulls'. They tore about, breaking their lawn into large slabs and then ruffling the slabs into a plowed field of white. The snow yielded softly, here, there, and everywhere, and the battle ended at the finish line, where the driveway was that separated the big lawn from a much smaller lawn, the modest territory of a fat, solitary cottage that has its own deep shingled roof and its own five or six diamond-paned windows. The cottage faced north, keeping its left shoulder to the ocean, and the lawn in front of it was perfectly white and untouched, except for a narrow trench that ran diagonally from the front door to the pine trees that stood halfway down the lawn, where the bird feeder was. And straight across the middle of the lawn, running to their food, the pheasants had left their prints—a frieze of claws. And around the base of the bird feeder, under the biggest pine, thousands of other tiny footmarks had beaten the snow into a great, shallow earthenware bowl of brown, black, and white, streaked with seed. The little black cat who liked to sit under the bird feeder, staring up, waiting for a chance at murder, and who often fled from the feeder with seeds, like retribution, glittering wickedly from the inside corners of her eyes, was not in her place this morning. She was asleep somewhere inside the cottage, and so were the other cats who lived there asleep, and the house itself seemed to sleep soundly, as though the snow had claimed and sealed it, just for the day.
  The children crossed the driveway and paused to survey the small lawn and to consult together. At least, they put their heads together, although the eldest boy did all the talking, and when the talking was over he took the first step. He was wearing huge-footed boots of dull black rubber, and he planted his right foot deeply into the fresh snow of the small lawn and then planted his left foot firmly in front of his right, and proceeded to walk like that, wobbling a little, until he was a good distance across the lawn. Then he turned smartly to face the cottage, and stood at attention with his arms at his sides, and fell backward his full length and lay there stiffly, grinning and calling to the eldest girl, who was next in line, to follow him. She was already making her way, even more unsteadily than he, along his track, and when she was a couple of feet from him she stopped and turned and dropped back as he had done. As she fell, without his athletic confidence, she tumbled, but the snow bed she made for herself was just as neat as his, and she lay stiffly, as he did. The second boy followed and dropped back into his place, in his turn, and very soon all seven children were lying in a row, giggling with excitement and constraint, and raising their heads awkwardly to see if anybody was watching them from the cottage.
  The front door of the cottage opened and a black Labrador retriever charged out, looking joyful, because her mouth was open. She was Bluebell, and she was growing old, but she wore her gray hairs very lightly, and nothing could dim her determination to be wherever the people were. She stood beside the eldest boy and stared expectantly along the line of bodies, wagging her tail and waiting for them all to get up. When they didn't get up, she began washing the eldest boy's face with her large pink tongue. The eldest boy squealed and moaned and wriggled but did not break the mold he lay in, and Bluebell moved from him to the eldest girl, who shrieked while she was being washed but did not wriggle. The second boy was rolling his eyes, and when he saw Bluebell's big face coming close to him he yelled and jumped up and ran out into the driveway, and the others all followed him. But not one mold was broken. The seven molds remained clear and clean in the snow, and the children stood in the driveway and screamed with laughter and looked at the lawn they had conquered without doing it any mischief. Then they turned and raced away up their own rumpled lawn. Since there were seven children, Bluebell transformed herself into seven dogs and ran among them like a lunatic, upsetting them all. When she had made them dodge as much as she pleased, she raced for the big house and flew up the front steps and was at the door before any of them. The smallest girl, who had begun the rush up the lawn, was soon left behind, and so she stopped running and dawdled carelessly along to show that she was last on purpose and that she was in no hurry to get home. But she too reached the house in her own good time, and climbed the steps and walked inside, and the heavy front door closed behind her. The game was all over.
  Maeve Brennan was born in Dublin, on January 6, 1916. From the time she was nearly five until she was almost eighteen, she lived in a small house on Cherryfield Avenue, in the area of the city called Ranelagh. This dead-end street, with its fifty-two red-brick houses, their small back gardens separated from one another by low stone walls, was her one true home. She revisited it frequently in her writings.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: One Saturday afternoon in January, several Januarys ago, the snow began falling, and it continued through the night, falling thickly until about midnight, when there was a brief clear interlude, with moonlight. The moon remained hidden, but her light flowed calmly in all directions, revealing an untenanted fairyland beside a flickering, wandering ocean. The thin line of wind-bent trees that separates the lawn of the giant's mansion from the golf course cast spidery shadows in the moonlight, and, nearer the dunes, the fragment of hedge where pink and white beach roses bloom in summer was a little bundle of darkness in the quiet expanse of snow. Only one light showed in the turreted clubhouse—it was their nightlight—and the giant's mansion was dark. The children were all asleep, and there was no one to notice when the moon withdrew her light and the snow began falling again, not to stop this time until after dawn.
  About nine o'clock in the morning, the entrance door of the giant's mansion opened and the seven children hurried carefully down their broad, snow-laden stone steps, between their two tame stone lions, and began racing about the pure and glowing surface of the lawn, which seemed even larger white. It was a big world, in the snow. The children tried to fill it, calling to one another, but their voices sounded thin and small, the way the trees looked, even with a round line of snow along each branch and twig. The snowy universe looked eternal, as though it might remain as it was forever, sea, sky, and snow, but the whirling children appeared and vanished and reappeared and vanished again, in a dazzling jigsaw of hands and feet and faces and arms and eyes and legs and bodies, running and falling and rolling and tumbling, catching at the air and at the snow, every movement separate and sudden and disconnected, and yet every movement part of one continuous movement, as though they had been playing that game for centuries. It was a Chinese battle, white on white, with porcelain dunes in the background. The children were snow children, except for their red faces and dark hair, and their cries were less fierce than the sea gulls'. They tore about, breaking their lawn into large slabs and then ruffling the slabs into a plowed field of white. The snow yielded softly, here, there, and everywhere, and the battle ended at the finish line, where the driveway was that separated the big lawn from a much smaller lawn, the modest territory of a fat, solitary cottage that has its own deep shingled roof and its own five or six diamond-paned windows. The cottage faced north, keeping its left shoulder to the ocean, and the lawn in front of it was perfectly white and untouched, except for a narrow trench that ran diagonally from the front door to the pine trees that stood halfway down the lawn, where the bird feeder was. And straight across the middle of the lawn, running to their food, the pheasants had left their prints—a frieze of claws. And around the base of the bird feeder, under the biggest pine, thousands of other tiny footmarks had beaten the snow into a great, shallow earthenware bowl of brown, black, and white, streaked with seed. The little black cat who liked to sit under the bird feeder, staring up, waiting for a chance at murder, and who often fled from the feeder with seeds, like retribution, glittering wickedly from the inside corners of her eyes, was not in her place this morning. She was asleep somewhere inside the cottage, and so were the other cats who lived there asleep, and the house itself seemed to sleep soundly, as though the snow had claimed and sealed it, just for the day.
  The children crossed the driveway and paused to survey the small lawn and to consult together. At least, they put their heads together, although the eldest boy did all the talking, and when the talking was over he took the first step. He was wearing huge-footed boots of dull black rubber, and he planted his right foot deeply into the fresh snow of the small lawn and then planted his left foot firmly in front of his right, and proceeded to walk like that, wobbling a little, until he was a good distance across the lawn. Then he turned smartly to face the cottage, and stood at attention with his arms at his sides, and fell backward his full length and lay there stiffly, grinning and calling to the eldest girl, who was next in line, to follow him. She was already making her way, even more unsteadily than he, along his track, and when she was a couple of feet from him she stopped and turned and dropped back as he had done. As she fell, without his athletic confidence, she tumbled, but the snow bed she made for herself was just as neat as his, and she lay stiffly, as he did. The second boy followed and dropped back into his place, in his turn, and very soon all seven children were lying in a row, giggling with excitement and constraint, and raising their heads awkwardly to see if anybody was watching them from the cottage.
  The front door of the cottage opened and a black Labrador retriever charged out, looking joyful, because her mouth was open. She was Bluebell, and she was growing old, but she wore her gray hairs very lightly, and nothing could dim her determination to be wherever the people were. She stood beside the eldest boy and stared expectantly along the line of bodies, wagging her tail and waiting for them all to get up. When they didn't get up, she began washing the eldest boy's face with her large pink tongue. The eldest boy squealed and moaned and wriggled but did not break the mold he lay in, and Bluebell moved from him to the eldest girl, who shrieked while she was being washed but did not wriggle. The second boy was rolling his eyes, and when he saw Bluebell's big face coming close to him he yelled and jumped up and ran out into the driveway, and the others all followed him. But not one mold was broken. The seven molds remained clear and clean in the snow, and the children stood in the driveway and screamed with laughter and looked at the lawn they had conquered without doing it any mischief. Then they turned and raced away up their own rumpled lawn. Since there were seven children, Bluebell transformed herself into seven dogs and ran among them like a lunatic, upsetting them all. When she had made them dodge as much as she pleased, she raced for the big house and flew up the front steps and was at the door before any of them. The smallest girl, who had begun the rush up the lawn, was soon left behind, and so she stopped running and dawdled carelessly along to show that she was last on purpose and that she was in no hurry to get home. But she too reached the house in her own good time, and climbed the steps and walked inside, and the heavy front door closed behind her. The game was all over.
  Maeve Brennan was born in Dublin, on January 6, 1916. From the time she was nearly five until she was almost eighteen, she lived in a small house on Cherryfield Avenue, in the area of the city called Ranelagh. This dead-end street, with its fifty-two red-brick houses, their small back gardens separated from one another by low stone walls, was her one true home.