So they walked down to Creevy bridge, and, when there, stood leaning on the parapet and looking back upon the town.
"How well I know every house and spot in the place as I see them from here," he said.
"A good many of the houses are your own,--or will be some day; and therefore you should know them." "I remember, when I used to be here as a boy fishing, I always thought Aunt Winterfield's house was the biggest house in the county." "It can't be nearly so large as your father's house in Yorkshire." "No; certainly it is not.

Aylmer Park is a large place; but the house does not stretch itself out so wide as that; nor does it stand on the side of a hill so as to show out its proportions with so much ostentation.

The coach-house and the stables, and the old brewhouse, seem to come half way down the hill.

And when I was a boy I had much more respect for my aunt's red-brick house in Perivale than I had for Aylmer Park." "And now it's your own." "Yes; now it's my own,--and all my respect for it is gone.

I used to think the Creevy the best river in England for fish; but I wouldn't give a sixpence now for all the perch I ever caught in it." "Perhaps your taste for perch is gone also." "Yes; and my taste for jam.