The housekeeper, a wiry old woman named Mrs. Grayson, led her through the echoing corridors with a gait as sharp as her tongue. Portraits lined the walls, their painted faces frozen in haughty judgment, their eyes following Ivy as she passed. She kept her head low, her chestnut hair falling in a tangled curtain over her face, but her mind buzzed with a quiet defiance. She had scrubbed floors and mended stockings in a village where the air reeked of coal and despair, daughter to a washerwoman and a drunkard, but she had never bowed willingly. This place, with its vaulted ceilings and glittering chandeliers, was a foreign kingdom, and yet it stirred something in her-a pulse of longing she could not name.
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