[Editorial] dêpôt -> depot

src/epub/text/the-plutonian-fire.xhtml

@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>On the morrow, I dragged him to an editor. The great man read, and, rising, gave Pettit his hand. That was a decoration, a wreath of bay, and a guarantee of rent.</p>
 			<p>And then old Pettit smiled slowly. I call him Gentleman Pettit now to myself. It’s a miserable name to give a man, but it sounds better than it looks in print.</p>
 			<p>“I see,” said old Pettit, as he took up his story and began tearing it into small strips. “I see the game now. You can’t write with ink, and you can’t write with your own heart’s blood, but you can write with the heart’s blood of someone else. You have to be a cad before you can be an artist. Well, I am for old Alabam and the Major’s store. Have you got a light, Old Hoss?”</p>
-			<p>I went with Pettit to the dêpôt and died hard.</p>
+			<p>I went with Pettit to the depot and died hard.</p>
 			<p>“Shakespeare’s sonnets?” I blurted, making a last stand. “How about him?”</p>
 			<p>“A cad,” said Pettit. “They give it to you, and you sell it⁠—love, you know. I’d rather sell ploughs for father.”</p>
 			<p>“But,” I protested, “you are reversing the decision of the world’s greatest⁠—”</p>