Fix typos

src/epub/text/the-green-door.xhtml

@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>“Fainted, didn’t I?” she asked, weakly. “Well, who wouldn’t? You try going without anything to eat for three days and see!”</p>
 			<p>“Himmel!” exclaimed Rudolf, jumping up. “Wait till I come back.”</p>
 			<p>He dashed out the green door and down the stairs. In twenty minutes he was back again, kicking at the door with his toe for her to open it. With both arms he hugged an array of wares from the grocery and the restaurant. On the table he laid them⁠—bread and butter, cold meats, cakes, pies, pickles, oysters, a roasted chicken, a bottle of milk and one of red-hot tea.</p>
-			<p>“This is ridiculous,” said Rudolf, blusteringly, “to go without eating. You must quit making election bets of this kind. Supper is ready.” He helped her to a chair at the table and asked: “Is there a cup for the tea?” “On the shelf by the window,” she answered. When he turned again with the cup he saw her, with eyes shining rapturously, beginning upon a huge Dill pickle that she had rooted out from the paper bags with a woman’s unerring instinct. He took it from her, laughingly, and poured the cup full of milk. “Drink that first” he ordered, “and then you shall have some tea, and then a chicken wing. If you are very good you shall have a pickle tomorrow. And now, if you’ll allow me to be your guest we’ll have supper.”</p>
+			<p>“This is ridiculous,” said Rudolf, blusteringly, “to go without eating. You must quit making election bets of this kind. Supper is ready.” He helped her to a chair at the table and asked: “Is there a cup for the tea?” “On the shelf by the window,” she answered. When he turned again with the cup he saw her, with eyes shining rapturously, beginning upon a huge Dill pickle that she had rooted out from the paper bags with a woman’s unerring instinct. He took it from her, laughingly, and poured the cup full of milk. “Drink that first,” he ordered, “and then you shall have some tea, and then a chicken wing. If you are very good you shall have a pickle tomorrow. And now, if you’ll allow me to be your guest we’ll have supper.”</p>
 			<p>He drew up the other chair. The tea brightened the girl’s eyes and brought back some of her colour. She began to eat with a sort of dainty ferocity like some starved wild animal. She seemed to regard the young man’s presence and the aid he had rendered her as a natural thing⁠—not as though she undervalued the conventions; but as one whose great stress gave her the right to put aside the artificial for the human. But gradually, with the return of strength and comfort, came also a sense of the little conventions that belong; and she began to tell him her little story. It was one of a thousand such as the city yawns at every day⁠—the shop girl’s story of insufficient wages, further reduced by “fines” that go to swell the store’s profits; of time lost through illness; and then of lost positions, lost hope, and⁠—the knock of the adventurer upon the green door.</p>
 			<p>But to Rudolf the history sounded as big as the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.poem">Iliad</i> or the crisis in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Junie’s Love Test</i>.</p>
 			<p>“To think of you going through all that,” he exclaimed.</p>

src/epub/text/the-harbinger.xhtml

@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“How do you know it was a dollar?” asked Ragsy, the immensity of the sum inclining him to scepticism.</p>
 			<p>“The coalman seen her have it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters. “She went out and done some washing yesterday. And look what she give me for breakfast⁠—the heel of a loaf and a cup of coffee, and her with a dollar!”</p>
 			<p>“It’s fierce,” said Ragsy.</p>
-			<p>“Say we go up and punch ’er and stick a towel in ’er mouth and cop the coin” suggested Kidd, viciously. “Y’ ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”</p>
+			<p>“Say we go up and punch ’er and stick a towel in ’er mouth and cop the coin,” suggested Kidd, viciously. “Y’ ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”</p>
 			<p>“She might holler and have us pinched,” demurred Ragsy. “I don’t believe in slugging no woman in a houseful of people.”</p>
 			<p>“Gent’men,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Peters, severely, through his russet stubble, “remember that you are speaking of my wife. A man who would lift his hand to a lady except in the way of⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Maguire,” said Ragsy, pointedly, “has got his bock beer sign out. If we had a dollar we could⁠—”</p>

src/epub/text/the-red-roses-of-tonia.xhtml

@@ -66,7 +66,7 @@
 			<p>Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake. In dusty pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two leftover spring hats. But, alas! for his commercial probity on that early Saturday morn⁠—they were hats of two springs ago, and a woman’s eye would have detected the fraud at half a glance. But to the unintelligent gaze of the cowpuncher and the sheepman they seemed fresh from the mint of contemporaneous April.</p>
 			<p>The hats were of a variety once known as “cartwheels.” They were of stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed. Both were exactly alike, and trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown, immaculate, artificial white roses.</p>
 			<p>“That all you got, Uncle Tommy?” said Pearson. “All right. Not much choice here, Burr. Take your pick.”</p>
-			<p>“They’re the latest styles” lied Uncle Tommy. “You’d see ’em on Fifth Avenue, if you was in New York.”</p>
+			<p>“They’re the latest styles,” lied Uncle Tommy. “You’d see ’em on Fifth Avenue, if you was in New York.”</p>
 			<p>Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for a protection. One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-thongs; and the other became part of Road Runner’s burden. They shouted thanks and farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into the night on the home stretch.</p>
 			<p>The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill. They rode more slowly on their way back. The few words they spoke were not unfriendly. Burrows had a Winchester under his left leg slung over his saddle horn. Pearson had a six shooter belted around him. Thus men rode in the Frio country.</p>
 			<p>At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and saw the Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks, five miles away.</p>

src/epub/text/the-theory-and-the-hound.xhtml

@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>“I’ll tell you what you do,” he said, laying down his rifle and slipping on his dingy black alpaca coat. “You come along, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Plunkett, and I’ll take you up to see the boys. If you can tell which one of ’em your description fits better than it does the other you have the advantage of me.”</p>
 			<p>Bridger conducted the sheriff out and along the hard beach close to which the tiny houses of the village were distributed. Immediately back of the town rose sudden, small, thickly wooded hills. Up one of these, by means of steps cut in the hard clay, the consul led Plunkett. On the very verge of an eminence was perched a two-room wooden cottage with a thatched roof. A Carib woman was washing clothes outside. The consul ushered the sheriff to the door of the room that overlooked the harbour.</p>
 			<p>Two men were in the room, about to sit down, in their shirt sleeves, to a table spread for dinner. They bore little resemblance one to the other in detail; but the general description given by Plunkett could have been justly applied to either. In height, colour of hair, shape of nose, build and manners each of them tallied with it. They were fair types of jovial, ready-witted, broad-gauged Americans who had gravitated together for companionship in an alien land.</p>
-			<p>“Hello, Bridger” they called in unison at sight of the consul. “Come and have dinner with us!” And then they noticed Plunkett at his heels, and came forward with hospitable curiosity.</p>
+			<p>“Hello, Bridger,” they called in unison at sight of the consul. “Come and have dinner with us!” And then they noticed Plunkett at his heels, and came forward with hospitable curiosity.</p>
 			<p>“Gentlemen,” said the consul, his voice taking on unaccustomed formality, “this is <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Plunkett. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Plunkett⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Reeves and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Morgan.”</p>
 			<p>The coconut barons greeted the newcomer joyously. Reeves seemed about an inch taller than Morgan, but his laugh was not quite as loud. Morgan’s eyes were deep brown; Reeves’s were black. Reeves was the host and busied himself with fetching other chairs and calling to the Carib woman for supplemental tableware. It was explained that Morgan lived in a bamboo shack to “loo’ard,” but that every day the two friends dined together. Plunkett stood still during the preparations, looking about mildly with his pale-blue eyes. Bridger looked apologetic and uneasy.</p>
 			<p>At length two other covers were laid and the company was assigned to places. Reeves and Morgan stood side by side across the table from the visitors. Reeves nodded genially as a signal for all to seat themselves. And then suddenly Plunkett raised his hand with a gesture of authority. He was looking straight between Reeves and Morgan.</p>