Fix typos

src/epub/text/barbershop-adventure.xhtml

@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
 			<p>“He pulled off his hat, and his head was as shiny and bare as a china egg.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘It all came out,’ he said roughly. ‘It was growing all right until yesterday morning, when it commenced to fall out, and this morning there wasn’t a hair left.’</p>
 			<p>“I examined his head and there wasn’t the ghost of a hair to be found anywhere.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘What’s the good of your stuff,” he asked angrily, ‘if it makes your hair grow and then all fall out again?’</p>
+			<p>“ ‘What’s the good of your stuff,’ he asked angrily, ‘if it makes your hair grow and then all fall out again?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘For heaven’s sake, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Plunket,’ I said, ‘don’t say anything about it or you’ll ruin me. I’ve got every cent I’ve got in the world invested in this hair tonic, and I’ve got to get my money back. It made your hair grow, give me the testimonial and let me sell what I’ve got put up, anyway. You are $250 ahead on it and you ought to help me out of it.’</p>
 			<p>“He was very mad and cut up quite roughly and said he had been swindled and would expose the tonic as a fraud and a lot of things like that. Finally he agreed that if I would pay him $100 more he would give me the testimonial to the effect that the tonic had made his hair grow and say nothing about its having fallen out again. If I could sell what I had put up at $1.00 per bottle I would come out about even.</p>
 			<p>“I went out and borrowed the money and paid it to him and he signed the testimonial and left.”</p>

src/epub/text/hearts-and-crosses.xhtml

@@ -116,7 +116,7 @@
 			<p>She dragged him from the gallery into the room to the right. There stood a cradle with an infant in it⁠—a red, ribald, unintelligible, babbling, beautiful infant, sputtering at life in an unseemly manner.</p>
 			<p>“There’s no queen on this ranch,” said Santa again. “Look at the king. He’s got your eyes, Webb. Down on your knees and look at his Highness.”</p>
 			<p>But jingling rowels sounded on the gallery, and Bud Turner stumbled there again with the same query that he had brought, lacking a few days, a year ago.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Morning. Them beeves is just turned out on the trail. Shall I drive ’em to Barber’s, or⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Morning. Them beeves is just turned out on the trail. Shall I drive ’em to Barber’s, or⁠—”</p>
 			<p>He saw Webb and stopped, open-mouthed.</p>
 			<p>“Bababa-baba-ba!” shrieked the king in his cradle, beating the air with his fists.</p>
 			<p>“You hear your boss, Bud,” said Webb Yeager, with a broad grin⁠—just as he had said a year ago.</p>

src/epub/text/red-conlins-eloquence.xhtml

@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>“Red Conlin was a natural orator; he wasn’t overcrowded with book learnin’, but his words come free and easy, like whisky out of a new faucet from a full barrel. He was always in a good humor and smilin’ clear across his face, and if he asked for a hot biscuit he did it like he was pleadin’ for his life. He was one man who had the gift of gab, and it never failed him.</p>
 			<p>“I remember once, in Atascosa County, the hoss thieves worried us right smart. There was a gang of ’em, and they got runnin’ off a caballaro every week or so. Some of us got together and raised a p’int of order and concluded to sustain it. The head of the gang was a fellow named Mullens, and a tough cuss he was. Fight, too, and warn’t particular when. Twenty of us saddled up and went into camp, loaded down with six-shooters and Winchesters. That Mullens had the nerve to try to cut off our saddle horses the first night, but we heard him, got mounted, and went hot on his trail. There was five or six others with Mullens.</p>
 			<p>“It was dark as thunder, and pretty soon we run one of them down. His horse was lame, and we knew it was Mullens by his big white hat and black beard. We didn’t hardly give him time to speak, we was so mad, but in two minutes there was a rope ’round his neck and Mullens was swung up at last. We waited about ten minutes till he was still, and then some fellow strikes a match out of curiosity and screeches out:</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Gosh a’mighty, boys, we’ve strung up the wrong man!”</p>
+			<p>“ ‘Gosh a’mighty, boys, we’ve strung up the wrong man!’ ”</p>
 			<p>“And we had.</p>
 			<p>“We reopened the fellow’s case and give him a new trial, and acquitted him, but it was too late to do him any good. He was as dead as Davy Crockett.</p>
 			<p>“It was Sandy McNeagh, one of the quietest, straightest, and best-respected men in the county, and what was worse, hadn’t been married but about three months.</p>

src/epub/text/the-fifth-wheel.xhtml

@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 			<p>“Madam,” said the professor, with his princeliest smile, “the true Art cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the crystal, the stars, the magic formulae of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean Chiroscope has been successful in our search.”</p>
 			<p>The professor’s voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more interest.</p>
 			<p>“Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on it,” she said. “What do you mean?”</p>
-			<p>“The words were these,” said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full magnificent height: “<em>‘By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall come.’</em>”</p>
+			<p>“The words were these,” said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full magnificent height: “<em>‘By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall come.’</em> ”</p>
 			<p>“I haven’t seen many chariots,” said the lady, “but I never saw one with five wheels.”</p>
 			<p>“Progress,” said the professor⁠—“progress in science and mechanics has accomplished it⁠—though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your eyes the proof thereof.”</p>
 			<p>And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.</p>

src/epub/text/the-rathskeller-and-the-rose.xhtml

@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>“You may fetch me a glass of lager beer,” he said, in response to the discreet questioning of the servitor.</p>
 			<p>The eyes of the rathskeller were upon him. He was as fresh as a collard and as ingenuous as a hay rake. He let his eye rove about the place as one who regards, big-eyed, hogs in the potato patch. His gaze rested at length upon Miss Carrington. He rose and went to her table with a lateral, shining smile and a blush of pleased trepidation.</p>
 			<p>“How’re ye, Miss Posie?” he said in accents not to be doubted. “Don’t ye remember me⁠—Bill Summers⁠—the Summerses that lived back of the blacksmith shop? I reckon I’ve growed up some since ye left Cranberry Corners.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘Liza Perry ’lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You know ’Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“ ’Liza Perry ’lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You know ’Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Ah, say!” interrupted Miss Carrington, brightly, “Lize Perry is never married⁠—what! Oh, the freckles of her!”</p>
 			<p>“Married in June,” grinned the gossip, “and livin’ in the old Tatum Place. Ham Riley perfessed religion; old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Blithers sold her place to Cap’n Spooner; the youngest Waters girl run away with a music teacher; the courthouse burned up last March; your uncle Wiley was elected constable; Matilda Hoskins died from runnin’ a needle in her hand, and Tom Beedle is courtin’ Sallie Lathrop⁠—they say he don’t miss a night but what he’s settin’ on their porch.”</p>
 			<p>“The walleyed thing!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity. “Why, Tom Beedle once⁠—say, you folks, excuse me a while⁠—this is an old friend of mine⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—what was it? Yes, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Summers⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Goldstein, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ricketts, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—Oh, what’s yours? ‘Johnny’ ’ll do⁠—come on over here and tell me some more.”</p>

src/epub/text/the-world-and-the-door.xhtml

@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>After dinner Merriam sat in a corner of the broad front <i xml:lang="es">galeria</i> with Bibb, a Vermonter interested in hydraulic mining, and smoked and drank Scotch “smoke.” The moonlit sea, spreading infinitely before him, seemed to separate him beyond all apprehension from his old life. The horrid tragedy in which he had played such a disastrous part now began, for the first time since he stole on board the fruiter, a wretched fugitive, to lose its sharper outlines. Distance lent assuagement to his view. Bibb had opened the floodgates of a stream of long-dammed discourse, overjoyed to have captured an audience that had not suffered under a hundred repetitions of his views and theories.</p>
 			<p>“One year more,” said Bibb, “and I’ll go back to God’s country. Oh, I know it’s pretty here, and you get <span xml:lang="it">dolce far niente</span> handed to you in chunks, but this country wasn’t made for a white man to live in. You’ve got to have to plug through snow now and then, and see a game of baseball and wear a stiff collar and have a policeman cuss you. Still, La Paz is a good sort of a pipe-dreamy old hole. And <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant is here. When any of us feels particularly like jumping into the sea we rush around to her house and propose. It’s nicer to be rejected by <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Conant than it is to be drowned. And they say drowning is a delightful sensation.”</p>
 			<p>“Many like her here?” asked Merriam.</p>
-			<p>“Not anywhere,” said Bibb, with a comfortable sigh. She’s the only white woman in La Paz. The rest range from a dappled dun to the colour of a b-flat piano key. She’s been here a year. Comes from⁠—well, you know how a woman can talk⁠—ask ’em to say ‘string’ and they’ll say ‘crow’s foot’ or ‘cat’s cradle.’ Sometimes you’d think she was from Oshkosh, and again from Jacksonville, Florida, and the next day from Cape Cod.”</p>
+			<p>“Not anywhere,” said Bibb, with a comfortable sigh. “She’s the only white woman in La Paz. The rest range from a dappled dun to the colour of a b-flat piano key. She’s been here a year. Comes from⁠—well, you know how a woman can talk⁠—ask ’em to say ‘string’ and they’ll say ‘crow’s foot’ or ‘cat’s cradle.’ Sometimes you’d think she was from Oshkosh, and again from Jacksonville, Florida, and the next day from Cape Cod.”</p>
 			<p>“Mystery?” ventured Merriam.</p>
 			<p>“M⁠—well, she looks it; but her talk’s translucent enough. But that’s a woman. I suppose if the Sphinx were to begin talking she’d merely say: ‘Goodness me! more visitors coming for dinner, and nothing to eat but the sand which is here.’ But you won’t think about that when you meet her, Merriam. You’ll propose to her too.”</p>
 			<p>To make a hard story soft, Merriam did meet her and propose to her. He found her to be a woman in black with hair the colour of a bronze turkey’s wings, and mysterious, <em>remembering</em> eyes that⁠—well, that looked as if she might have been a trained nurse looking on when Eve was created. Her words and manner, though, were translucent, as Bibb had said. She spoke, vaguely, of friends in California and some of the lower parishes in Louisiana. The tropical climate and indolent life suited her; she had thought of buying an orange grove later on; La Paz, all in all, charmed her.</p>