[Editorial] every one -> everyone

src/epub/text/a-night-errant.xhtml

@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>Presently Crip’s mother returns with his medicine and proceeds to make him comfortable. She gives a screech of surprise at what she sees lying upon the bed, and proceeds to take an inventory. There are $42 in currency, $6.50 in silver, a lady’s silver slipper buckle and an elegant pearl-handled knife with four blades.</p>
 			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man sees Crip take his medicine and his fever go down, and promising him to bring down a paper that tells all about the great fight, he moves away. A thought strikes him, and he stops near the door and says:</p>
 			<p>“Your husband, now where was he from?”</p>
-			<p>“Oh, plaze yer honor,” says Crip’s mother, “from Alabama he was, and a gentleman born, as every one could tell till the dhrink got away wid him, and thin he married me.”</p>
+			<p>“Oh, plaze yer honor,” says Crip’s mother, “from Alabama he was, and a gentleman born, as everyone could tell till the dhrink got away wid him, and thin he married me.”</p>
 			<p>As the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man departs he hears Crip say to his mother reverentially:</p>
 			<p>“Dat man what left de stuff, mammy, he couldn’t have been God, for God don’t get full; but if it wasn’t him, mammy, I bet a dollar he was Dan Stuart.”</p>
 			<p>As the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man trudges back along the dark road to the city, he says to himself:</p>

src/epub/text/the-headhunter.xhtml

@@ -64,7 +64,7 @@
 			<p>“Stuff!” said I.</p>
 			<p>“How was that?” asked the Reverend Homer, sharply.</p>
 			<p>“I say it’s tough,” said I, “to drop into the vernacular, that Miss Greene should be deprived of the food she desires⁠—a simple thing like kalsomine-pudding. Perhaps,” I continued, solicitously, “some pickled walnuts or a fricassee of Hungarian butternuts would do as well.”</p>
-			<p>Every one looked at me with a slight exhibition of curiosity.</p>
+			<p>Everyone looked at me with a slight exhibition of curiosity.</p>
 			<p>Louis Devoe arose and made his adieus. I watched him until he had sauntered slowly and grandiosely to the corner, around which he turned to reach his great warehouse and store. Chloe made her excuses, and went inside for a few minutes to attend to some detail affecting the seven-o’clock dinner. She was a passed mistress in housekeeping. I had tasted her puddings and bread with beatitude.</p>
 			<p>When all had gone, I turned casually and saw a basket made of plaited green withes hanging by a nail outside the doorjamb. With a rush that made my hot temples throb there came vividly to my mind recollections of the headhunters⁠—<em>those grim, flinty, relentless little men, never seen, but chilling the warmest noonday by the subtle terror of their concealed presence … From time to time, as vanity or ennui or love or jealousy or ambition may move him, one creeps forth with his snickersnee and takes up the silent trail … Back he comes, triumphant, bearing the severed, gory head of his victim … His particular brown or white maid lingers, with fluttering bosom, casting soft tiger’s eyes at the evidence of his love for her</em>.</p>
 			<p>I stole softly from the house and returned to my hut. From its supporting nails in the wall I took a machete as heavy as a butcher’s cleaver and sharper than a safety-razor. And then I chuckled softly to myself, and set out to the fastidiously appointed private office of Monsieur Louis Devoe, usurper to the hand of the Pearl of the Pacific.</p>

src/epub/text/vereton-villa.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="veriton-villa" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<header>
 				<h2 epub:type="title">Veriton Villa</h2>
-				<p epub:type="epigraph">The following story of Southern life and manners won a prize offered by a Boston newspaper, and was written by a young lady in Boston, a teacher in one of the advanced schools of that city. She has never visited the South, but the faithful local color and character drawing shows an intimate acquaintance with the works of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> H. B. Stowe, Albion W. Tourgee and other well known chroniclers of Southern life. Every one living in the South will recognize the accurate portraits of Southern types of character and realistic description of life among the Southern planters.</p>
+				<p epub:type="epigraph">The following story of Southern life and manners won a prize offered by a Boston newspaper, and was written by a young lady in Boston, a teacher in one of the advanced schools of that city. She has never visited the South, but the faithful local color and character drawing shows an intimate acquaintance with the works of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> H. B. Stowe, Albion W. Tourgee and other well known chroniclers of Southern life. Everyone living in the South will recognize the accurate portraits of Southern types of character and realistic description of life among the Southern planters.</p>
 			</header>
 			<p>Will you go, Penelope?” asked Cyrus.</p>
 			<p>“It is my duty,” I said. “It is a grand mission to go to Texas and carry what light I can to its benighted inhabitants. The school I am offered will pay me well, and if I can teach the savage people of that region something of our culture and refinement, I shall be happy.”</p>