[StrictlyBus] [Editorial] some one -> someone

src/epub/text/a-municipal-report.xhtml

@@ -111,7 +111,7 @@
 			<p>“I have never thought of it that way,” she said, with a kind of sincere intensity that seemed to belong to her. “Isn’t it in the still, quiet places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one’s window and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world⁠—I mean the building of the Tower of Babel⁠—result in finally? A page and a half of Esperanto in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">North American Review</i>.”</p>
 			<p>“Of course,” said I platitudinously, “human nature is the same everywhere; but there is more color⁠—er⁠—more drama and movement and⁠—er⁠—romance in some cities than in others.”</p>
 			<p>“On the surface,” said Azalea Adair. “I have traveled many times around the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings⁠—print and dreams. I have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets because his wife was going out with her face covered⁠—with rice powder. In San Francisco’s Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh, yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud and lumber yards.”</p>
-			<p>Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders.</p>
+			<p>Someone knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders.</p>
 			<p>“You must have a cup of tea before you go,” she said, “and a sugar cake.”</p>
 			<p>She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in mouth and bulging eyes.</p>
 			<p>Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro⁠—there was no doubt about it.</p>

src/epub/text/a-ramble-in-aphasia.xhtml

@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“On Thursday nights,” I said, defensively, “my wife and I play cribbage. On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law books are not a recreation remains yet to be established.”</p>
 			<p>That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney’s words. I was feeling as well as I usually did⁠—possibly in better spirits than usual.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: “I must have a name of some sort.” I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of large denomination. “I must be some one, of course,” I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.</p>
+			<p>I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: “I must have a name of some sort.” I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of large denomination. “I must be someone, of course,” I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.</p>
 			<p>The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed in the best good humor and spirits. One of them⁠—a stout, spectacled gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes⁠—took the vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper. In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and by my companion said:</p>
 			<p>“You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this time. I’m glad they held the convention in New York; I’ve never been East before. My name’s R. P. Bolder⁠—Bolder &amp; Son, of Hickory Grove, Missouri.”</p>
 			<p>Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it. Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent. My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper, where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.</p>
@@ -118,7 +118,7 @@
 			<p>“Old friend,” said he, “I’ll do everything in my power, and will have done everything that science can do to cure you.”</p>
 			<p>“Very well,” said I. “Then you will consider that I am your patient. Everything is in confidence now⁠—professional confidence.”</p>
 			<p>“Of course,” said Doctor Volney.</p>
-			<p>I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the centre table⁠—a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant. I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the couch again.</p>
+			<p>I got up from the couch. Someone had set a vase of white roses on the centre table⁠—a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant. I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the couch again.</p>
 			<p>“It will be best, Bobby,” I said, “to have this cure happen suddenly. I’m rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in. But, oh, Doc,” I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin⁠—“good old Doc⁠—it was glorious!”</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>

src/epub/text/compliments-of-the-season.xhtml

@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>“You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,” he roared. “Go away.”</p>
 			<p>They went away⁠—a little way.</p>
 			<p>In “Pigeon” McCarthy’s pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug. One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a slung-shot, being a conventional thug. “One-ear” Mike relied upon a pair of brass knucks⁠—an heirloom in the family.</p>
-			<p>“Why fetch and carry,” said Black Riley, “when some one will do it for ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey⁠—what?”</p>
+			<p>“Why fetch and carry,” said Black Riley, “when someone will do it for ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey⁠—what?”</p>
 			<p>“We can chuck him in the river,” said “Pigeon” McCarthy, “with a stone tied to his feet.”</p>
 			<p>“Youse guys make me tired,” said “One-ear” Mike sadly. “Ain’t progress ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on ’im, and drop ’im on the Drive⁠—well?”</p>
 			<p>Fuzzy entered the Millionaire’s gate and zigzagged toward the softly glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate and lingered⁠—one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.</p>
@@ -62,13 +62,13 @@
 			<p>He followed James to the door.</p>
 			<p>He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for him to pass into the vestibule.</p>
 			<p>Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.</p>
-			<p>Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire’s door and bethought himself. Like little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk, mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall gay⁠—where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and⁠—and some one was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before. Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas⁠—Fuzzy though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.</p>
+			<p>Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire’s door and bethought himself. Like little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk, mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall gay⁠—where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and⁠—and someone was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before. Someone singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas⁠—Fuzzy though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.</p>
 			<p>And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white, transient, forgotten ghost⁠—the spirit of noblesse oblige. Upon a gentleman certain things devolve.</p>
 			<p>James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and “One-ear” Mike saw, and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.</p>
 			<p>With a more imperious gesture than James’s master had ever used or could ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.</p>
 			<p>“It is cust⁠—customary,” he said to James, the flustered, “when a gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season with the lady of the house. You und’stand? I shall not move shtep till I pass compl’ments season with lady the house. Und’stand?”</p>
 			<p>There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.</p>
-			<p>A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.</p>
+			<p>A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy in the hall. James explained somewhere to someone.</p>
 			<p>Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.</p>
 			<p>The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a doll. Fuzzy didn’t understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.</p>
 			<p>A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to Fuzzy.</p>

src/epub/text/the-girl-and-the-habit.xhtml

@@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
 			<p>Miss McRamsey whirled around.</p>
 			<p>“Cut that joshing out,” she said, coolly and briskly. “Who do you think you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond and puzzled whisker.</p>
-			<p>“Miss McRamsey has fainted,” some one explained.</p>
+			<p>“Miss McRamsey has fainted,” someone explained.</p>
 		</section>
 	</body>
 </html>

src/epub/text/the-venturers.xhtml

@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?” asked Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate the interior of the Powhatan Club.</p>
 			<p>“Doubtless,” said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.</p>
-			<p>Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself, must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one else. (I had written that “somebody”; but an <abbr>A.D.T.</abbr> boy who once took a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the compound word. This is a vice versa case.)</p>
+			<p>Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself, must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by someone else. (I had written that “somebody”; but an <abbr>A.D.T.</abbr> boy who once took a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the compound word. This is a vice versa case.)</p>
 			<p>Forster’s favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life. But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be found at the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almost precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found a depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although the world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it’s true interest is to be in “What’s Around the Corner.”</p>
 			<p>Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown, uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.</p>
 			<p>At the end of an hour’s stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad, smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be appeased by the “dead perfection” of the place’s cuisine. Even the music there seemed to be always playing da capo.</p>