'Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions.' 'If the bull was mad,' said Paul, 'how did he know that the boy had asked questions?
Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull.

I don't believe that story.
'You don't believe it, Sir ?' repeated Mrs Pipchin, amazed.
'No,' said Paul.
'Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little Infidel ?' said Mrs Pipchin.
As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, and had founded his conclusions on the alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed himself to be put down for the present.

But he sat turning it over in his mind, with such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs Pipchin presently, that even that hardy old lady deemed it prudent to retreat until he should have forgotten the subject.
From that time, Mrs Pipchin appeared to have something of the same odd kind of attraction towards Paul, as Paul had towards her.

She would make him move his chair to her side of the fire, instead of sitting opposite; and there he would remain in a nook between Mrs Pipchin and the fender, with all the light of his little face absorbed into the black bombazeen drapery, studying every line and wrinkle of her countenance, and peering at the hard grey eye, until Mrs Pipchin was sometimes fain to shut it, on pretence of dozing.

Mrs Pipchin had an old black cat, who generally lay coiled upon the centre foot of the fender, purring egotistically, and winking at the fire until the contracted pupils of his eyes were like two notes of admiration.