Update CSS to new standards

src/epub/css/core.css

@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@ hgroup > *:first-child{
 	font-weight: bold;
 }
 
-blockquote + p,
+p.continued,
 h2 + p,
 h3 + p,
 h4 + p,

src/epub/css/local.css

@@ -87,12 +87,6 @@ article > header [epub|type~="epigraph"]{
 	display: none;
 }
 
-[epub|type~="z3998:poem"] + p,
-[epub|type~="z3998:song"] + p,
-[epub|type~="z3998:verse"] + p{
-	text-indent: 0;
-}
-
 [epub|type~="z3998:poem"] p + p{
 	margin-top: 1em;
 }
@@ -348,3 +342,13 @@ p span.i3{
 #calloways-code blockquote p + p{
 	text-indent: 0;
 }
+
+.editorial{
+	margin: 1em;
+	text-align: center;
+	text-indent: 0;
+}
+
+.editorial + p{
+	text-indent: 0;
+}

src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml

@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 					<span>As the farmer does his grounds,”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>that sad and melancholy old song that Irishmen always sing when they feel particularly jolly, his voice sounded plaintive and full of pathos.</p>
+			<p class="continued">that sad and melancholy old song that Irishmen always sing when they feel particularly jolly, his voice sounded plaintive and full of pathos.</p>
 			<p>Kathleen was far too wise to chide him. She tried to be gay and cheerful, though the change in Fergus made her heart very sad. Again the next day, and once more the following day but one, did she see him with the low-browed tempter that had wrought the change.</p>
 			<p>Day by day Fergus grew morose and pale. His once jolly and laughing face grew stern and thoughtful. He rarely spoke to anyone, and once when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> O’Malley handed him a big schooner from a keg fresh from the brewery, he heaved such a deep and mournful sigh that the foam flew half across the room.</p>
 			<p>“Kathleen,” said her papa one day, “what’s the matter wid that long-legged omadhaun Fergus? He looks like he was walking over his own grave.”</p>

src/epub/text/solemn-thoughts.xhtml

@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
 					<span>The twilight melted into dark,’ ”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>quoted the New York drummer. “Heigho! I wish I was at home tonight.”</p>
+			<p class="continued">quoted the New York drummer. “Heigho! I wish I was at home tonight.”</p>
 			<p>“Same here,” said the little man from <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis. “I can just see the kids now tumbling round on the floor and cutting up larks before Laura puts them to bed. There’s one blessing, though, I’ll be home on Thanksgiving.”</p>
 			<p>“I had a letter from home today,” said the white-bearded Philadelphian, “and it made me homesick. I would give a foot of that slushy pavement on Spruce Street for all these balmy airs and mockingbird solos in the South. I’m going to strike a bee line for the Quaker City in time for that fat turkey, I don’t care what my house says.”</p>
 			<p>“Yust hear dot band playing,” said the fat gentleman. “I can almost dink I vos back in Cincinnati ‘neber die Rhein’ mit dot schplendid little beautiful girl from de hat factory. I dink it is dese lovely nights vot makes us of home, sweet home, gedinken.”</p>
@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 					<span>The casement slowly grows a glimmering square,’</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>there is sweet relief in knowing that those we leave behind us are shielded from want.</p>
+			<p class="continued">there is sweet relief in knowing that those we leave behind us are shielded from want.</p>
 			<p>“Gentlemen, we are all far from home and you know the risks of travel. I am representing one of the best accident insurance companies on earth, and I want to write every one of you. I offer you the finest death, partial disablement, loss of finger or toe, nervous shock, sick benefit policy known to⁠—”</p>
 			<p>But the man with gold spectacles was talking to five empty chairs, and the moon slipped down below the roof of the market house with a sardonic smile.</p>
 		</article>

src/epub/text/the-caballeros-way.xhtml

@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
 					<span>Or I’ll tell you what I’ll do⁠—</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>and so on. The roan was inured to it, and did not mind.</p>
+			<p class="continued">and so on. The roan was inured to it, and did not mind.</p>
 			<p>But even the poorest singer will, after a certain time, gain his own consent to refrain from contributing to the world’s noises. So the Kid, by the time he was within a mile or two of Tonia’s jacal, had reluctantly allowed his song to die away⁠—not because his vocal performance had become less charming to his own ears, but because his laryngeal muscles were aweary.</p>
 			<p>As though he were in a circus ring the speckled roan wheeled and danced through the labyrinth of pear until at length his rider knew by certain landmarks that the Lone Wolf Crossing was close at hand. Then, where the pear was thinner, he caught sight of the grass roof of the <span xml:lang="es">jacal</span> and the hackberry tree on the edge of the arroyo. A few yards farther the Kid stopped the roan and gazed intently through the prickly openings. Then he dismounted, dropped the roan’s reins, and proceeded on foot, stooping and silent, like an Indian. The roan, knowing his part, stood still, making no sound.</p>
 			<p>The Kid crept noiselessly to the very edge of the pear thicket and reconnoitred between the leaves of a clump of cactus.</p>

src/epub/text/the-church-with-an-overshot-wheel.xhtml

@@ -100,7 +100,7 @@
 					<span class="i1">The dusty miller’s merry.”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>—and then the rest of the miracle happened. Miss Chester was leaning forward from her pew, as pale as the flour itself, her wide-open eyes staring at Father Abram like one in a waking dream. When he began the song she stretched out her arms to him; her lips moved; she called to him in dreamy tones: “Dada, come take Dums home!”</p>
+			<p class="continued">—and then the rest of the miracle happened. Miss Chester was leaning forward from her pew, as pale as the flour itself, her wide-open eyes staring at Father Abram like one in a waking dream. When he began the song she stretched out her arms to him; her lips moved; she called to him in dreamy tones: “Dada, come take Dums home!”</p>
 			<p>Miss Phoebe released the low key of the organ. But her work had been well done. The note that she struck had beaten down the doors of a closed memory; and Father Abram held his lost Aglaia close in his arms.</p>
 			<p>When you visit Lakelands they will tell you more of this story. They will tell you how the lines of it were afterward traced, and the history of the miller’s daughter revealed after the gipsy wanderers had stolen her on that September day, attracted by her childish beauty. But you should wait until you sit comfortably on the shaded porch of the Eagle House, and then you can have the story at your ease. It seems best that our part of it should close while Miss Phoebe’s deep bass note was yet reverberating softly.</p>
 			<p>And yet, to my mind, the finest thing of it all happened while Father Abram and his daughter were walking back to the Eagle House in the long twilight, almost too glad to speak.</p>

src/epub/text/the-enchanted-kiss.xhtml

@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 					<span>“When you hear them bells go tingalingling,”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>serving notice upon those mysterious agencies that if it should come to a face-to-face encounter</p>
+			<p class="continued">serving notice upon those mysterious agencies that if it should come to a face-to-face encounter</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
 				<p>
 					<span>“There’ll be a hot time</span>

src/epub/text/the-unprofitable-servant.xhtml

@@ -74,16 +74,12 @@
 			<p>Such and such a prima donna (they will tell you) made her initial bow to the public while turning handsprings on an amateur night. One great matinée favorite made his debut on a generous Friday evening singing coon songs of his own composition. A tragedian famous on two continents and an island first attracted attention by an amateur impersonation of a newly landed Scandinavian peasant girl. One Broadway comedian that turns ’em away got a booking on a Friday night by reciting (seriously) the graveyard scene in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i>.</p>
 			<p>Thus they get their chance. Amateur night is a kindly boon. It is charity divested of almsgiving. It is a brotherly hand reached down by members of the best united band of coworkers in the world to raise up less fortunate ones without labelling them beggars. It gives you the chance, if you can grasp it, to step for a few minutes before some badly painted scenery and, during the playing by the orchestra of some ten or twelve bars of music, and while the soles of your shoes may be clearly holding to the uppers, to secure a salary equal to a Congressman’s or any orthodox minister’s. Could an ambitious student of literature or financial methods get a chance like that by spending twenty minutes in a Carnegie library? I do not trow so.</p>
 			<p>But shall we look in at Creary’s? Let us say that the specific Friday night had arrived on which the fortunate Mac McGowan was to justify the flattering predictions of his distinguished patron and, incidentally, drop his silver talent into the slit of the slot-machine of fame and fortune that gives up reputation and dough. I offer, sure of your acquiescence, that we now forswear hypocritical philosophy and bigoted comment, permitting the story to finish itself in the dress of material allegations⁠—a medium more worthy, when held to the line, than the most laborious creations of the word-milliners …</p>
-			<blockquote>
+			<p class="editorial">[Page of <abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry’s manuscript missing here.]</p>
-				<p>[Page of (<abbr class="name">O.</abbr> Henry’s) manuscript missing here.]</p>
-			</blockquote>
 			<p>… easily among the wings with his patron, the great Del Delano. For, whatever footlights shone in the City-That-Would-Be-Amused, the freedom of their unshaded side was Del’s. And if he should take up an amateur⁠—see? and bring him around⁠—see? and, winking one of his cold blue eyes, say to the manager: “Take it from me⁠—he’s got the goods⁠—see?” you wouldn’t expect that amateur to sit on an unpainted bench sudorifically awaiting his turn, would you? So Mac strolled around largely with the nonpareil; and the seven waited, clammily, on the bench.</p>
 			<p>A giant in shirtsleeves, with a grim, kind face in which many stitches had been taken by surgeons from time to time, <abbr class="initialism">i.e.</abbr>, with a long stick, looped at the end. He was the man with the Hook. The manager, with his close-smoothed blond hair, his one-sided smile, and his abnormally easy manner, pored with patient condescension over the difficult program of the amateurs. The last of the professional turns⁠—the Grand March of the Happy Huzzard⁠—had been completed; the last wrinkle and darn of their blue silkolene cotton tights had vanished from the stage. The man in the orchestra who played the kettledrum, cymbals, triangle, sandpaper, whang-doodle, hoof-beats, and catcalls, and fired the pistol shots, had wiped his brow. The illegal holiday of the Romans had arrived.</p>
 			<p>While the orchestra plays the famous waltz from “The Dismal Wife,” let us bestow two hundred words upon the psychology of the audience.</p>
 			<p>The orchestra floor was filled by People. The boxes contained Persons. In the galleries was the Foreordained Verdict. The claque was there as it had originated in the Stone Age and was afterward adapted by the French. Every Micky and Maggie who sat upon Creary’s amateur bench, wise beyond their talents, knew that their success or doom lay already meted out to them by that crowded, whistling, roaring mass of Romans in the three galleries. They knew that the winning or the losing of the game for each one lay in the strength of the “gang” aloft that could turn the applause to its favorite. On a Broadway first night a wooer of fame may win it from the ticket buyers over the heads of the cognoscenti. But not so at Creary’s. The amateur’s fate is arithmetical. The number of his supporting admirers present at his tryout decides it in advance. But how these outlying Friday nights put to a certain shame the Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and matinées of the Broadway stage you should know …</p>
-			<blockquote>
+			<p class="editorial">[Here the manuscript ends.]</p>
-				<p>[Here the manuscript ends.]</p>
-			</blockquote>
 		</article>
 	</body>
 </html>