conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Isabel, Art, Gratitude entitled The Lost Art of Gratitude.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Lost Art of Gratitude: A second attempt by professors Lettuce and Dove to oust Isabel from her position at 'The Review of Applied Ethics' is thwarted and Isabel learns further lessons about gratitude and kindness.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Lost Art of Gratitude
  She watched him. He was quite still. "Starting off in Bloomington," she went on. "Have you been there, Professor Lettuce?"
  It took Professor Lettuce some time to marshal his thoughts. As she waited for him, Isabel, toying with her pasta, found herself feeling some sympathy for her now-deflated adversary, caught between ambition and loyalty to his dubious ally. He was like one of those lettuces that, when you squeeze them, are all air between the leaves and reduce to more or less nothing, just a few thin green leaves. Although Lettuce was older than Dove by at least a decade, if not more, he was not the ringleader; it was dawning on her that it was Christopher Dove who was the prime mover in whatever plans the two of them had hatched. Lettuce was the mere messenger here, and he had seen the ground completely cut from beneath his feet with this countercharge against Dove. Now, watching him try to recover, she felt sorry for him; he was like a great beached whale struggling to get back into the water. To be pitied rather than despised.
  Isabel reached out across the table and placed her hand on his wrist. "I have no desire to fight with you, you know. I bear you no ill will over what happened."
  Lettuce's eyes were on her as she spoke. He looked down at her hand upon his wrist, as if trying to make sense of it, but he did not try to shrug it off.
  She moved her hand, and Lettuce went back to his salad. "You're quite right," he said. "And Hutcheson has not had adequate attention paid to him, I feel. His insights into morality and our sense of beauty seem so fresh, even today. I pay quite a lot of attention to those in my new work."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She indicated that they should go back towards the house, where she said she would pay him his one hundred pounds, fox or no fox. He looked sullen, but accepted the money quickly, and made his way down the driveway back to his van, tucking the twenty-pound notes into the side pockets of his trousers. Where the taxman will never see them, thought Isabel as she returned to Charlie's playroom.
  Jamie, freshly out of the shower, his hair still wet and ruffled, had removed Charlie from his playpen and was lifting and lowering him in controlled fall, a game which he called Aviation Boys, and which made Charlie shriek in high-pitched delight. Charlie had eyes only for his father now, and she smiled and left them to their game.
  She explained what had happened, and at the end, with some reluctance, she admitted to Jamie that she might have misjudged Minty—yet again.
  Jamie was not sure. Isabel, though, was having further thoughts about her own question. The answer lay in character: if one's character was base, then one did base things across the board. But that did not mean that one might not be good in some parts of one's life: one might show loyalty, for instance. Gangsters were loyal to each other—some of the time at least—and could be loyal to their country too. But was loyalty always something to be admired, or did it require a good object? It was no good being loyal to the Mafia or the KGB; loyalty in itself was neutral—it only showed its colours when you saw what somebody was loyal to.
  Of course, if one... She stopped. A strange yelp came from the garden, followed by a rapid, high-pitched barking sound. She looked at Jamie, who spun round to face the window. "Brother Fox?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He smiled. "I suspect nobody's ever written a song about potatoes dauphinois." He played another chord, as if he were looking for something on the piano. "This is about losing things," he said. "About thinking you've lost something, and then finding you haven't."
  Isabel sat down next to him, on the piano stool. I would go ten thousand miles for you, she thought; as she was now sure he would for her. That was another song altogether, something about turtle doves.
  The music accompanying the words was simple, but it followed their mood closely, fittingly, as a well-made garment will follow the shape of the body. When he reached the final sentence, the notes became softer and died away.
  Isabel sat transfixed, as did Jamie, and nothing was said for a long time; nor did they move—they were quite still, as they were when they heard the noise outside, the yelping sound: Brother Fox.