Verity swallows. "I cannot publish some cream-puff piece in Expectations," she says, braving it out in a slightly nasal tone of voice. "I know you think you're the greatest thing since Nellie Bly, Sally, but frankly, we don't." Oh, shove it, Verity! I want to say. But I'm the new and improved adult version of Sally Harrington, so for Mother's sake I won't. "I was going to suggest you just run a photo essay," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "I'll send you material you can pull captions from."
