The Countess had said, "After five," and at half past five the next day Newland was ringing the bell of her house in West Twenty-third Street. She had rented it from her aunt Medora, who was travelling again, but it was a strange area to live in -- a narrow street of poor-looking houses which needed painting, a street inhabited by dressmakers and writers.

"The Count must have robbed her of her fortune as well as her dreams," Newland thought as he looked around him.

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