Fix typos

src/epub/text/an-unfinished-christmas-story.xhtml

@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>Now, a Christmas story should be one. For a good many years the ingenious writers have been putting forth tales for the holiday numbers that employed every subtle, evasive, indirect and strategic scheme they could invent to disguise the Christmas flavor. So far has this new practice been carried that nowadays when you read a story in a holiday magazine the only way you can tell it is a Christmas story is to look at the footnote which reads: [“The incidents in the above story happened on December 25th.⁠—<b>Ed</b>.”]</p>
 			<p>There is progress in this; but it is all very sad. There are just as many real Christmas stories as ever, if we would only dig ’em up. Me, I am for the Scrooge and Marley Christmas story, and the Annie and Willie’s prayer poem, and the long lost son coming home on the stroke of twelve to the poorly thatched cottage with his arms full of talking dolls and popcorn balls and⁠—Zip! you hear the second mortgage on the cottage go flying off it into the deep snow.</p>
 			<p>So, this is to warn you that there is no subterfuge about this story⁠—and you might come upon stockings hung to the mantel and plum puddings and hark! the chimes! and wealthy misers loosening up and handing over penny whistles to lame newsboys if you read further.</p>
-			<p>Once I knocked at a door (I have so many things to tell you I keep on losing sight of the story). It was the front door of a furnished room house in West ‘Teenth Street. I was looking for a young illustrator named Paley originally and irrevocably from Terre Haute. Paley doesn’t enter even into the first serial rights of this Christmas story; I mention him simply in explaining why I came to knock at the door⁠—some people have so much curiosity.</p>
+			<p>Once I knocked at a door (I have so many things to tell you I keep on losing sight of the story). It was the front door of a furnished room house in West ’Teenth Street. I was looking for a young illustrator named Paley originally and irrevocably from Terre Haute. Paley doesn’t enter even into the first serial rights of this Christmas story; I mention him simply in explaining why I came to knock at the door⁠—some people have so much curiosity.</p>
 			<p>The door was opened by the landlady. I had seen hundreds like her. And I had smelled before that cold, dank, furnished draught of air that hurried by her to escape immurement in the furnished house.</p>
 			<p>She was stout, and her face and lands were as white as though she had been drowned in a barrel of vinegar. One hand held together at her throat a buttonless flannel dressing sacque whose lines had been cut by no tape or butterick known to mortal woman. Beneath this a too-long, flowered, black sateen skirt was draped about her, reaching the floor in stiff wrinkles and folds.</p>
 			<p>The rest of her was yellow. Her hair, in some bygone age, had been dipped in the fountain of folly presided over by the merry nymph Hydrogen; but now, except at the roots, it had returned to its natural grim and grizzled white.</p>

src/epub/text/extradited-from-bohemia.xhtml

@@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
 			<p>The eye of Binkley fixed a young man at his table with the Bohemian gleam, which is a compound of the look of the Basilisk, the shine of a bubble of Würzburger, the inspiration of genius and the pleading of a panhandler.</p>
 			<p>The young man sprang to his feet. “Hello, Bink, old boy!” he shouted. “Don’t tell me you were going to pass our table. Join us⁠—unless you’ve another crowd on hand.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t mind, old chap,” said Binkley, of the fish-stall. “You know how I like to butt up against the fine arts. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vandyke⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Madder⁠—er⁠—Miss Martin, one of the elect also in art⁠—er⁠—”</p>
-			<p>The introduction went around. There were also Miss Elise and Miss ‘Toinette. Perhaps they were models, for they chattered of the <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis decorations and Henry James⁠—and they did it not badly.</p>
+			<p>The introduction went around. There were also Miss Elise and Miss ’Toinette. Perhaps they were models, for they chattered of the <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis decorations and Henry James⁠—and they did it not badly.</p>
 			<p>Medora sat in transport. Music⁠—wild, intoxicating music made by troubadours direct from a rear basement room in Elysium⁠—set her thoughts to dancing. Here was a world never before penetrated by her warmest imagination or any of the lines controlled by Harriman. With the Green Mountains’ external calm upon her she sat, her soul flaming in her with the fire of Andalusia. The tables were filled with Bohemia. The room was full of the fragrance of flowers⁠—both mille and cauli. Questions and corks popped; laughter and silver rang; champagne flashed in the pail, wit flashed in the pan.</p>
 			<p>Vandyke ruffled his long, black locks, disarranged his careless tie and leaned over to Madder.</p>
 			<p>“Say, Maddy,” he whispered, feelingly, “sometimes I’m tempted to pay this Philistine his ten dollars and get rid of him.”</p>

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

@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering softheartedness and gushing egoism. All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone. A perusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing chambermaid.</p>
 			<p>In the morning Pettit came to my room. I read him his doom mercilessly. He laughed idiotically.</p>
 			<p>“All right, Old Hoss,” he said, cheerily, “make cigar-lighters of it. What’s the difference? I’m going to take her to lunch at Claremont today.”</p>
-			<p>There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dishrag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a true story⁠—‘ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty. I recommend the treatment.</p>
+			<p>There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dishrag. He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a true story⁠—’ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty. I recommend the treatment.</p>
 			<p>After Pettit was cured he wrote more stories. He recovered his old-time facility and did work just short of good enough. Then the curtain rose on the third act.</p>
 			<p>A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hampshire, who was studying applied design, fell deeply in love with him. She was the intense sort, but externally glacé, such as New England sometimes fools us with. Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal. She worshipped him, and now and then bored him.</p>
 			<p>There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he had to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing. Even I was shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home, friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistledown in the scale against her love. It was really discomposing.</p>

src/epub/text/the-tale-of-a-tainted-tenner.xhtml

@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, I forgot,” says the twenty, “that I was talking to a tenner. Of course you don’t know. You’re too much to put into the contribution basket, and not enough to buy anything at a bazaar. A church is⁠—a large building in which penwipers and tidies are sold at $20 each.”</p>
 			<p>I don’t care much about chinning with gold certificates. There’s a streak of yellow in ’em. All is not gold that’s quitters.</p>
 			<p>Old Jack certainly was a gild-edged sport. When it came his time to loosen up he never referred the waiter to an actuary.</p>
-			<p>By and by it got around that he was smiting the rock in the wilderness; and all along Broadway things with cold noses and hot gullets fell in on our trail. The third Jungle Book was there waiting for somebody to put covers on it. Old Jack’s money may have had a taint to it, but all the same he had orders for his Camembert piling up on him every minute. First his friends rallied round him; and then the fellows that his friends knew by sight; and then a few of his enemies buried the hatchet; and finally he was buying souvenirs for so many Neapolitan fisher maidens and butterfly octettes that the head waiters were ‘phoning all over town for Julian Mitchell to please come around and get them into some kind of order.</p>
+			<p>By and by it got around that he was smiting the rock in the wilderness; and all along Broadway things with cold noses and hot gullets fell in on our trail. The third Jungle Book was there waiting for somebody to put covers on it. Old Jack’s money may have had a taint to it, but all the same he had orders for his Camembert piling up on him every minute. First his friends rallied round him; and then the fellows that his friends knew by sight; and then a few of his enemies buried the hatchet; and finally he was buying souvenirs for so many Neapolitan fisher maidens and butterfly octettes that the head waiters were phoning all over town for Julian Mitchell to please come around and get them into some kind of order.</p>
 			<p>At last we floated into an uptown café that I knew by heart. When the hod-carriers’ union in jackets and aprons saw us coming the chief goal kicker called out: “Six⁠—eleven⁠—forty-two⁠—nineteen⁠—twelve” to his men, and they put on nose guards till it was clear whether we meant Port Arthur or Portsmouth. But old Jack wasn’t working for the furniture and glass factories that night. He sat down quiet and sang “Ramble” in a halfhearted way. His feelings had been hurt, so the twenty told me, because his offer to the church had been refused.</p>
 			<p>But the wassail went on; and Brady himself couldn’t have hammered the thirst mob into a better imitation of the real penchant for the stuff that you screw out of a bottle with a napkin.</p>
 			<p>Old Jack paid the twenty above me for a round, leaving me on the outside of his roll. He laid the roll on the table and sent for the proprietor.</p>