conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Cammie, Cammie's, Boo with the genre: Children's Books, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Warden's Daughter'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Warden's Daughter
  Cellblocks once rang with beanboppers on iron bars and bad words flying day and night. Now finches and warblers and scarlet tanagers sing and flutter behind walls of glass.
  The old Quiet Room, with its glass roof and tin wheelbarrow pouring water into a tiny pool, was designed to keep the prisoners calm. Almost no one went there but the trustees who tended the plants and flowers. Now children squeal as butterflies land on their heads and shoulders.
  Where there used to be two exercise yards—men's and women's—there is now a single garden, a paradise where turtles and peacocks roam. It has a second waterfall—high as the wall! Pebbled paths. Ponds. Foot-long goldfish.
  Except for the sign, it looks the same as always from the front: like a fortress from the Middle Ages. Massive, sooty stone walls. Arched oaken doors. A sky-piercing tower with narrow bow-and-arrow slots should the castle ever need defending.
  The prison was one city block long. It was home to over two hundred inmates, men and women, from shoplifters to murderers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Water.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Warden's Daughter
  Cellblocks once rang with beanboppers on iron bars and bad words flying day and night. Now finches and warblers and scarlet tanagers sing and flutter behind walls of glass. 
  The old Quiet Room, with its glass roof and tin wheelbarrow pouring water into a tiny pool, was designed to keep the prisoners calm. Almost no one went there but the trustees who tended the plants and flowers. Now children squeal as butterflies land on their heads and shoulders. 
  Where there used to be two exercise yards—men's and women's—there is now a single garden, a paradise where turtles and peacocks roam. It has a second waterfall—high as the wall! Pebbled paths. Ponds. Water lilies. Foot-long goldfish. 
  Except for the sign, it looks the same as always from the front: like a fortress from the Middle Ages. Massive, sooty stone walls. Arched oaken doors. A sky-piercing tower with narrow bow-and-arrow slots should the castle ever need defending. 
  The prison was one city block long. It was home to over two hundred inmates, men and women, from shoplifters to murderers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She could have gone straight home after the show. Instead she took the subway and the P&W high-speed trolley back to town, ran from the terminal to the jail and came stampeding up the stairs into the apartment. Fortunately, I had left the door open or she would have crashed through it. I already had the record player going.
  We cheered. We screamed. All five of us danced with her at once. She gave us the paper strip that certified her entry onto the show. We each tore off a postage stamp–size piece as a lifelong remembrance.
  By nightfall we had scattered to our homes, but the phone calls continued till midnight. We could barely wait to reconvene the next day, the Fourth of July.
  Cap pistols snapping in the streets. Cherry bombs booming in stairwells. Whistlers in the sky. Sparklers in the grass.
  But inside the women's yard the Fourth seemed like just another day. Deena sunbathing. Helen and Tessa squabbling over badminton. Cigarette tips kissing.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cigarette tips kissing.. Helen and Tessa squabbling over badminton. Deena sunbathing.
  But inside the women's yard the Fourth seemed like just another day. Sparklers in the grass. Whistlers in the sky. Cherry bombs booming in stairwells.
  Cap pistols snapping in the streets. We could barely wait to reconvene the next day, the Fourth of July.
  By nightfall we had scattered to our homes, but the phone calls continued till midnight. We each tore off a postage stamp–size piece as a lifelong remembrance. She gave us the paper strip that certified her entry onto the show. All five of us danced with her at once. We screamed.
  We cheered. I already had the record player going. Fortunately, I had left the door open or she would have crashed through it. Instead she took the subway and the P&W high-speed trolley back to town, ran from the terminal to the jail and came stampeding up the stairs into the apartment.She could have gone straight home after the show
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We turn a corner and the noise is louder. Another corner and...butterflies! Butterflies fluttering and little kids squealing as butterflies land on arms and heads and fingers.
  Ellie is smiling at me, and I'm aware that there is something extra in the smile, and her eyes are shifting from my face...ah...a butterfly, a big one, half the span of my hand, has landed on my shoulder. I crane my neck to see. Its color is the prettiest blue, with black trim and yellow dots.
  Another blue beauty appears, a copy of the one on my shoulder. It flutters above us. Ellie, focused on me, doesn't see it. I shift my eyes. "Look..."
  She can't help herself. "Please...please...," she squeaks. She moves her shoulder, as if to prepare, to invite.
  Others have earned heartfelt thank-yous as well: Rinky Batson, Becky Gilbert, Bob Hopple, Jeff James, Katie James, Leah James, Dottie Lieb, Kaye Lindauer, Pete Pennock, Glenn Ritter, Dave Wetzel; my wonderful literary agent, Bill Reiss; my copy editors, Karen Sherman, Marianne Cohen, and Artie Bennett; my story-whisperers, Nancy Hinkel and Nancy Siscoe; and my wife, first reader, and first friend, Eileen.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We turn a corner and the noise is louder. Another corner and...butterflies! Butterflies fluttering and little kids squealing as butterflies land on arms and heads and fingers.
  Ellie is smiling at me, and I'm aware that there is something extra in the smile, and her eyes are shifting from my face...ah...a butterfly, a big one, half the span of my hand, has landed on my shoulder. I crane my neck to see. Its color is the prettiest blue, with black trim and yellow dots.
  Another blue beauty appears, a copy of the one on my shoulder. It flutters above us. Ellie, focused on me, doesn't see it. I shift my eyes. "Look..."
  She can't help herself. "Please...please...," she squeaks. She moves her shoulder, as if to prepare, to invite.