[Options] Cleanup extraneous <br/>'s, few other issues

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@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Piggott,” said the editor, “is a brother of the principal stockholder of the magazine.”</p>
 			<p>“All’s right with the world⁠—Piggott passes,” said Thacker. “Well this article on Arctic exploration and the one on tarpon fishing might go. But how about this write-up of the Atlanta, New Orleans, Nashville, and Savannah breweries? It seems to consist mainly of statistics about their output and the quality of their beer. What’s the chip over the bug?”</p>
 			<p>“If I understand your figurative language,” answered Colonel Telfair, “it is this: the article you refer to was handed to me by the owners of the magazine with instructions to publish it. The literary quality of it did not appeal to me. But, in a measure, I feel impelled to conform, in certain matters, to the wishes of the gentlemen who are interested in the financial side of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">The Rose</i>.”</p>
-			<p>“I see,” said Thacker. “Next we have two pages of selections from ‘Lalla Rookh,’ by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore escape from, or what’s the name of the F.F.<span epub:type="z3998:roman">V</span>. family that he carries as a handicap?”</p>
+			<p>“I see,” said Thacker. “Next we have two pages of selections from ‘Lalla Rookh,’ by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore escape from, or what’s the name of the <abbr>F.F.V.</abbr> family that he carries as a handicap?”</p>
 			<p>“Moore was an Irish poet who died in 1852,” said Colonel Telfair, pityingly. “He is a classic. I have been thinking of reprinting his translation of Anacreon serially in the magazine.”</p>
 			<p>“Look out for the copyright laws,” said Thacker, flippantly. Who’s Bessie Belleclair, who contributes the essay on the newly completed water-works plant in Milledgeville?”</p>
 			<p>“The name, sir,” said Colonel Telfair, “is the nom de guerre of Miss Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honor of knowing the lady; but her contribution was sent to us by Congressman Brower, of her native state. Congressman Brower’s mother was related to the Polks of Tennessee.</p>
@@ -45,10 +45,10 @@
 			<p>One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages to the colonel.</p>
 			<p>Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in the United States⁠—three of ’em living in New York, and one commuting. There’s a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson. Here’s an Italian serial by Captain Jack⁠—no⁠—it’s the other Crawford. Here are three separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here’s a dandy entitled ‘What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases’⁠—a Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady’s maid to get that information. And here’s a Synopsis of Preceding Chapters of Hall Caine’s new serial to appear next June. And here’s a couple of pounds of vers de société that I got at a rate from the clever magazines. That’s the stuff that people everywhere want. And now here’s a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It’s a prognostication. He’s bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It’ll make a big hit all over the country. He⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. “What was the name?”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, I see,” said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he’s a son of the General. We’ll pass that manuscript up. But, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, it’s a magazine we’re trying to make go off⁠—not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here’s a thing that’s bound to get next to you. It’s an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J. W. himself. You know what that means to a magazine. I won’t tell you what I had to pay for that poem; but I’ll tell you this⁠—Riley can make more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I’ll read you the last two stanzas:<br/></p>
+			<p>“Oh, I see,” said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he’s a son of the General. We’ll pass that manuscript up. But, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, it’s a magazine we’re trying to make go off⁠—not the first gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here’s a thing that’s bound to get next to you. It’s an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J. W. himself. You know what that means to a magazine. I won’t tell you what I had to pay for that poem; but I’ll tell you this⁠—Riley can make more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I’ll read you the last two stanzas:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
-					<span>“ ‘Pa lays around ‘n’ loafs all day,<span>
+					<span>“ ‘Pa lays around ‘n’ loafs all day,</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i1">‘N’ reads and makes us leave him be.</span>
 					<br/>
@@ -83,7 +83,7 @@
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i1">‘N’ it’s too dark to see her eyes,</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>But every time I do I know<span>
+					<span>But every time I do I know</span>
 					<br/>
 					<span class="i1">She cries ‘n’ cries ‘n’ cries ‘n’ cries.</span>
 					<br/>
@@ -130,13 +130,13 @@
 			<p>“All right, Colonel,” he said, as cordially as he could. “You use your own judgment. If you’ve really got a scoop or something that will make ’em sit up, run it instead of my stuff. I’ll drop in again in about two weeks. Good luck!”</p>
 			<p>Colonel Telfair and the magazine promoter shook hands.</p>
 			<p>Returning a fortnight later, Thacker dropped off a very rocky Pullman at Toombs City. He found the January number of the magazine made up and the forms closed.</p>
-			<p>The vacant space that had been yawning for type was filled by an article that was headed thus:<br/></p>
+			<p>The vacant space that had been yawning for type was filled by an article that was headed thus:</p>
 			<div class="center">
-				<p class="noindent"><span class="small"><span class="smallcaps">second message to congress</span></span><br/><br/> Written for</p>
+				<p class="noindent"><span class="small"><span class="smallcaps">second message to congress</span></span>Written for</p>
 			</div>
 			<h3>THE ROSE OF DIXIE</h3>
 			<div class="center">
-				<p class="noindent"><span class="small">BY</span><br/><br/> A Member of the Well-known<br/> <br/> <b>BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA</b><br/> <br/> <span class="small"><span class="smallcaps">T. Roosevelt</span></span></p>
+				<p class="noindent"><span class="small">BY</span>A Member of the Well-known<b>BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA</b><span class="small"><span class="smallcaps">T. Roosevelt</span></span></p>
 			</div>
 		</section>
 	</body>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the suspicious reader, I will assert in time that this is not a newspaper story. You will encounter no shirt-sleeved, omniscient city editor, no prodigy “cub” reporter just off the farm, no scoop, no story⁠—no anything.</p>
 			<p>But if you will concede me the setting of the first scene in the reporters’ room of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Morning Beacon</i>, I will repay the favor by keeping strictly my promises set forth above.</p>
 			<p>I was doing space-work on the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Beacon</i>, hoping to be put on a salary. Some one had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for me at the end of a long table piled high with exchanges, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.journal">Congressional Records</i>, and old files. There I did my work. I wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings about its streets. My income was not regular.</p>
-			<p>One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something in the mechanical department⁠—I think he had something to do with the pictures, for he smelled of photographers’ supplies, and his hands were always stained and cut up with acids. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short, curly red whiskers that looked like a door-mat with the “welcome” left off. He was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning, and an assiduous borrower of sums ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. He knew the extent of his credit as well as the Chemical National Bank knows the amount of H<span class="xsmall">2</span>O that collateral will show on analysis. When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other to keep both from shaking. Whiskey. He had a spurious air of lightness and bravado about him that deceived no one, but was useful in his borrowing because it was so pitifully and perceptibly assumed.</p>
+			<p>One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something in the mechanical department⁠—I think he had something to do with the pictures, for he smelled of photographers’ supplies, and his hands were always stained and cut up with acids. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short, curly red whiskers that looked like a door-mat with the “welcome” left off. He was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning, and an assiduous borrower of sums ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. He knew the extent of his credit as well as the Chemical National Bank knows the amount of H<sub>2</sub>O that collateral will show on analysis. When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other to keep both from shaking. Whiskey. He had a spurious air of lightness and bravado about him that deceived no one, but was useful in his borrowing because it was so pitifully and perceptibly assumed.</p>
 			<p>This day I had coaxed from the cashier five shining silver dollars as a grumbling advance on a story that the Sunday editor had reluctantly accepted. So if I was not feeling at peace with the world, at least an armistice had been declared; and I was beginning with ardor to write a description of the Brooklyn Bridge by moonlight.</p>
 			<p>“Well, Tripp,” said I, looking up at him rather impatiently, “how goes it?” He was looking to-day more miserable, more cringing and haggard and downtrodden than I had ever seen him. He was at that stage of misery where he drew your pity so fully that you longed to kick him.</p>
 			<p>“Have you got a dollar?” asked Tripp, with his most fawning look and his dog-like eyes that blinked in the narrow space between his high-growing matted beard and his low-growing matted hair.</p>

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@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘W. D.,’ says the King, all of a sudden, ‘I’ll give you a square deal. It ain’t often I get to talk to a white man, and I’ll give you a show for your money. It may be these constituents of mine have a few grains of gold-dust hid away in their clothes. To-morrow you may get out these goods you’ve brought up and see if you can make any sales. Now, I’m going to introduce myself unofficially. My name is Shane⁠—Patrick Shane. I own this tribe of Peche Indians by right of conquest⁠—single handed and unafraid. I drifted up here four years ago, and won ’em by my size and complexion and nerve. I learned their language in six weeks⁠—it’s easy: you simply emit a string of consonants as long as your breath holds out and then point at what you’re asking for.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I conquered ’em, spectacularly,’ goes on King Shane, ‘and then I went at ’em with economical politics, law, sleight-of-hand, and a kind of New England ethics and parsimony. Every Sunday, or as near as I can guess at it, I preach to ’em in the council-house (I’m the council) on the law of supply and demand. I praise supply and knock demand. I use the same text every time. You wouldn’t think, W. D.,’ says Shane, ‘that I had poetry in me, would you?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I wouldn’t know whether to call it poetry or not.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Tennyson,’ says Shane, ‘furnishes the poetic gospel I preach. I always considered him the boss poet. Here’s the way the text goes:<br/></p>
+			<p>“ ‘Tennyson,’ says Shane, ‘furnishes the poetic gospel I preach. I always considered him the boss poet. Here’s the way the text goes:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
 					<span>“ ‘ “For, not to admire, if a man could learn it, were more</span>

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@@ -52,12 +52,12 @@
 			<p>“ ‘There’s some letters,’ says I, ‘on his nob’s pedestal, but I can’t make ’em out. The alphabet of this country seems to be composed of sometimes <i xml:lang="grapheme">a</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">e</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">i</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">o</i>, and <i xml:lang="grapheme">u</i>, but generally <i xml:lang="grapheme">z’s</i>, <i xml:lang="grapheme">l’s</i>, and <i xml:lang="grapheme">t</i>’s.’</p>
 			<p>“High Jack’s ethnology gets the upper hand of his rum for a minute, and he investigates the inscription.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Hunky,’ says he, ‘this is a statue of Tlotopaxl, one of the most powerful gods of the ancient Aztecs.’</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Glad to know him,’ says I, ‘but in his present condition he reminds me of the joke Shakespeare got off on Julius Cæsar. We might say about your friend:<br/></p>
+			<p>“ ‘Glad to know him,’ says I, ‘but in his present condition he reminds me of the joke Shakespeare got off on Julius Cæsar. We might say about your friend:</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
 				<p>
 					<span>“ ‘Imperious what’s-his-name, dead and turned to stone⁠—</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>No use to write or call him on the ‘phone.’<span/>
+					<span>No use to write or call him on the ‘phone.’</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“ ‘Hunky,’ says High Jack Snakefeeder, looking at me funny, ‘do you believe in reincarnation?’</p>