There are a few easily-recognized dangers associated with reading English novels of the nineteenth century: listlessness, glassy eyes, an elevated aversion to vermin. The lesser dangers, however, are no less threatening to one's emotional well-being. One may emerge from several hermetic hours with "Return of the Native" and hear oneself ask, of a lovely boxer's owner, "How is he called?" rather than "What's his name?", and have to scuttle back inside one's residence to blush and smack own's own forehead.