conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Albert, Mobilio with the genre: Travel, Europe?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Prosperous Friends'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first two paragraphs for this book? Start with the sentence 'Prosperous Friends
  One unexpectedly hot afternoon, she persuaded Ned to walk through Highgate Cemetery thinking it would make for the coolest exercise—reinvigorating, but it brought no extended relief'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Prosperous Friends
  One unexpectedly hot afternoon, she persuaded Ned to walk through Highgate Cemetery thinking it would make for the coolest exercise—reinvigorating, but it brought no extended relief. Ned complained. Better to be hot at home; at least there he could work. She was looking at the faithful mastiff at the foot of the pugilist's grave when the midget father appeared. Out of nowhere, an old-apple face on a little body, followed by a midget boy with hair like a cap pulled low. After that, Ned preferred walking in the wide spaces of heaths, views, Parliament Hill.
  A certain kind of woman—coarsely attractive, sensual, damp, bad skin—invariably told Isabel that Ned looked like an old boyfriend. Now, for instance, Sue Rassmussen was telling her how Ned looked just like this guy she knew back home in the States. Sue Rassmussen was talking about this guy, and as there was nothing expected of her in this conversation, Isabel turned away.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No, he wants to think of pleasanter times. So does she but uglier thoughts intrude. The chocolaty laxatives she chewed after every meal—crapping over a hole in some Italian hill town while Fife and Ned drank under an awning sagged with rain. Why did her thoughts wend this way? She is here, now—look up! The oaks in the Seaside Cemetery rattle; the sky is near.
  Here, with these sleepers, how easy it is to fall onto a path that should be familiar but is not. The Seaside Ceme­tery will never be known entirely. Today's new names are Zilpah Means and Isophene; Helen, at Rest; and Minnie. The last two are small stones. Minnie's has a rose; Helen's, nothing. Zilpah Means is buried with her husband under a twelve-foot obelisk. Isophene is all by herself, a name on a stone separated from family, a child, but whose?
  Isabel's maiden name—and her professional name —is Stark. Bourne is sometimes socially expedient; thus, Dinah must think of her now as Isabel Bourne, and what is that but a foolish heart?
  Speared on a pike of the wrought-iron fence are gouts of melons—watermelons—squashed troughs for flies she nears to see. Kid mischief, must be; mostly no one's here to hear the steady lobstermen at sea coughing through the fog and brushfire blue before first light every morning. Across the street from the older grocery is the town hall and, up the street, the high school. Most of the town is white; the darker, waterlogged-looking places, watering holes like the Clam Box, are on the dock. A small post office—very friendly—a library, two banks, the famous Wish Nursery, two competing hardware stores, The Bay Bookstore, and the other one, for tourists, that sells puzzles and calendars and toys. A town the way a town should be, straightforward and simple as Grover's Corners with a historical society and historical sites, homesteads, deeds, seals, the picture of Amos Weed's funeral. June 1895. A windowed box of smoke on wheels, a horse-drawn summer hearse posed before the open gates of the Seaside Cemetery. The horse looks nearly dead himself though the coachman sits upright. Someone there is always brave.
  The malign eye and the nasty snout repelled her and she couldn't set the trap. That's when Floyd and Floyd's PestGo came over—well, really, only the younger Floyd, called Pete, came over and advised against catch and release. "The darn things come back like as not": this from Pete who bent to a hole in the house. "Here's one way them squirrels get in."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Lobstermen, Trade, Winds, fishing.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No, he wants to think of pleasanter times. So does she but uglier thoughts intrude. The chocolaty laxatives she chewed after every meal—crapping over a hole in some Italian hill town while Fife and Ned drank under an awning sagged with rain. Why did her thoughts wend this way? She is here, now—look up! The oaks in the Seaside Cemetery rattle; the sky is near. 
  Here, with these sleepers, how easy it is to fall onto a path that should be familiar but is not. The Seaside Ceme­tery will never be known entirely. Today's new names are Zilpah Means and Isophene; Helen, at Rest; and Minnie. The last two are small stones. Minnie's has a rose; Helen's, nothing. Zilpah Means is buried with her husband under a twelve-foot obelisk. Isophene is all by herself, a name on a stone separated from family, a child, but whose?
  Isabel's maiden name—and her professional name —is Stark. Bourne is sometimes socially expedient; thus, Dinah must think of her now as Isabel Bourne, and what is that but a foolish heart?
  Speared on a pike of the wrought-iron fence are gouts of melons—watermelons—squashed troughs for flies she nears to see. Kid mischief, must be; mostly no one's here to hear the steady lobstermen at sea coughing through the fog and brushfire blue before first light every morning. Lobstermen because this is still a fishing village; but there are also—count them—three art galleries, a few bric-a-brac shops, the Trade Winds, and an older grocery that sells liquor. Across the street from the older grocery is the town hall and, up the street, the high school. Most of the town is white; the darker, waterlogged-looking places, watering holes like the Clam Box, are on the dock. A small post office—very friendly—a library, two banks, the famous Wish Nursery, two competing hardware stores, The Bay Bookstore, and the other one, for tourists, that sells puzzles and calendars and toys. A town the way a town should be, straightforward and simple as Grover's Corners with a historical society and historical sites, homesteads, deeds, seals, the picture of Amos Weed's funeral. June 1895. A windowed box of smoke on wheels, a horse-drawn summer hearse posed before the open gates of the Seaside Cemetery. The horse looks nearly dead himself though the coachman sits upright. Someone there is always brave. 
  The malign eye and the nasty snout repelled her and she couldn't set the trap. That's when Floyd and Floyd's PestGo came over—well, really, only the younger Floyd, called Pete, came over and advised against catch and release. "The darn things come back like as not": this from Pete who bent to a hole in the house. "Here's one way them squirrels get in. "
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs? Start with the sentence 'Aura surprises herself sometimes with what she knows'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Aura surprises herself sometimes with what she knows. Barbershop quartets, for instance, she has never seen one but on TV.
  An actress stopped once for a week engagement at the opera house. Three nights she stayed. The actress had rich friends nearby, but a B & B was as close to a home of any kind as she would ever get, which was pretty much all she said. She didn't have time to take the boat to Rockport or hike or bike in Acadia. Lobster was all she knew of Maine. The actress was funny on TV but not in life. She was one of those who didn't like to talk at breakfast but gestured for coffee and black toast, no butter.
  That visit had made Aura sad, and a couple, earlier in the summer, crying—or the girl crying—had astonished her. Easy to be awed by extravagant suffering or bitterness—look at her own over her father and his disappointed life—but joy or the quiet delight Aura once saw in the softened face of a woman who knew she was watched even as she ate, watched and admired, to witness such affection of one for another, to see the kinder moments as she has, and Ed has, too, this was all and enough. Ed often acts surprised, not so much by her observations as by the thing itself—heart or goodness or whatever a person wants to call it. Plants, he has said, are nicer. And that's true, but, oh, she lets herself be teased; he likes to nettle her, she knows, which is another way to love.
  The breakfast that comes with a night at the Wax Hill B & B includes vegetables and fruits from the garden. Yesterday she served a couple from Minnesota grilled tomatoes topped with browned bread crumbs along with bacon and sunny-side eggs. She doesn't squeeze oranges; she doesn't go that far—no fresh juice, just Tropicana, but Aura's mother! Every morning the woman found the time to give her husband and children four ounces of fresh orange juice. Sausages and powder biscuits were also a part of their diet. No wonder, her father's heart. Aura's parents were long married, too, and met in the same way in high school. Her mother taught sixth grade—spelling tests and prepositions, long division, Greek myths.
  The Greeks, her mother told her, valued hospitality. For eating rather than feeding his guests, the one-eyed giant Polyphemus lost his eye. Pious mortals who stick to the code fare better. Like the poor old couple—what were their names?—who offered all of what they had for the comfort of gods in disguise: the best chair, their last chicken, the cask of wine now sour but the gods make it sweeter. In the end, the old couple are granted any wish—and this is the tender part of the story Aura's mother loved and she does, too—the old couple say we have lived so long together, let neither of us ever have to live alone. Grant that we may die together. So it is that in dying they have only enough time to cry, "Farewell, dear companion," before they turn into trees, a linden and an oak, sprung from one trunk.