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“But all you do anymore is commercial crap,” protests Andrei. “What happened to your old work, in black and white?” He yanks a book off the shelf, fans it. “This! The stuff that came from–”

“The heart?” says Verity, and chokes a giggle. “Oh, please finish that sentence. And my ‘commercial work’ is at least as valid as overexposed pictures of a butter churn by a fencepost.”

“It’s selling out!”

“It’s my talent, used as I like, with money on top,” says Verity. “How long is this going to be an issue?”

“Until you kick me off your couch,” sniffs Andrei.

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