[Grafter] [Editorial] any one -> anyone

src/epub/text/a-tempered-wind.xhtml

@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“Why, ma’am,” says I, “this graft of ours is so nice and refined and romantic, it would make the balcony scene in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ look like second-story work.”</p>
 			<p>We talked it over, and Miss Malloy agreed to come in as a business partner. She said she was glad to get a chance to give up her place as stenographer and secretary to a suburban lot company, and go into something respectable.</p>
 			<p>This is the way we worked our scheme. First, I figured it out by a kind of a proverb. The best grafts in the world are built up on copybook maxims and psalms and proverbs and Esau’s fables. They seem to kind of hit off human nature. Our peaceful little swindle was constructed on the old saying: “The whole push loves a lover.”</p>
-			<p>One evening Buck and Miss Malloy drives up like blazes in a buggy to a farmer’s door. She is pale but affectionate, clinging to his arm⁠—always clinging to his arm. Any one can see that she is a peach and of the cling variety. They claim they are eloping for to be married on account of cruel parents. They ask where they can find a preacher. Farmer says, “B’gum there ain’t any preacher nigher than Reverend Abels, four miles over on Caney Creek.” Farmeress wipes her hand on her apron and rubbers through her specs.</p>
+			<p>One evening Buck and Miss Malloy drives up like blazes in a buggy to a farmer’s door. She is pale but affectionate, clinging to his arm⁠—always clinging to his arm. Anyone can see that she is a peach and of the cling variety. They claim they are eloping for to be married on account of cruel parents. They ask where they can find a preacher. Farmer says, “B’gum there ain’t any preacher nigher than Reverend Abels, four miles over on Caney Creek.” Farmeress wipes her hand on her apron and rubbers through her specs.</p>
 			<p>Then, lo and look ye! Up the road from the other way jogs Parleyvoo Pickens in a gig, dressed in black, white necktie, long face, sniffing his nose, emitting a spurious kind of noise resembling the long meter doxology.</p>
 			<p>“B’jinks!” says farmer, “if thar ain’t a preacher now!”</p>
 			<p>It transpires that I am <abbr>Rev.</abbr> Abijah Green, travelling over to Little Bethel schoolhouse for to preach next Sunday.</p>