[Editorial] 'cello -> cello

src/epub/text/the-memento.xhtml

@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, I’m not telling you much about myself, am I, Lynn?</p>
 			<p>“I had two hundred dollars saved up, and I cut the stage the first of the summer. I went over on Long Island and found the sweetest little village that ever was, called Soundport, right on the water. I was going to spend the summer there, and study up on elocution, and try to get a class in the fall. There was an old widow lady with a cottage near the beach who sometimes rented a room or two just for company, and she took me in. She had another boarder, too⁠—the Reverend Arthur Lyle.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, he was the headliner. You’re on, Lynn. I’ll tell you all of it in a minute. It’s only a one-act play.</p>
-			<p>“The first time he walked on, Lynn, I felt myself going; the first lines he spoke, he had me. He was different from the men in audiences. He was tall and slim, and you never heard him come in the room, but you felt him. He had a face like a picture of a knight⁠—like one of that Round Table bunch⁠—and a voice like a ’cello solo. And his manners!</p>
+			<p>“The first time he walked on, Lynn, I felt myself going; the first lines he spoke, he had me. He was different from the men in audiences. He was tall and slim, and you never heard him come in the room, but you felt him. He had a face like a picture of a knight⁠—like one of that Round Table bunch⁠—and a voice like a cello solo. And his manners!</p>
 			<p>“Lynn, if you’d take John Drew in his best drawing-room scene and compare the two, you’d have John arrested for disturbing the peace.</p>
 			<p>“I’ll spare you the particulars; but in less than a month Arthur and I were engaged. He preached at a little one-night stand of a Methodist church. There was to be a parsonage the size of a lunch-wagon, and hens and honeysuckles when we were married. Arthur used to preach to me a good deal about Heaven, but he never could get my mind quite off those honeysuckles and hens.</p>
 			<p>“No; I didn’t tell him I’d been on the stage. I hated the business and all that went with it; I’d cut it out forever, and I didn’t see any use of stirring things up. I was a good girl, and I didn’t have anything to confess, except being an elocutionist, and that was about all the strain my conscience would stand.</p>

src/epub/text/the-things-the-play.xhtml

@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
 			<p>Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever vouchsafed you⁠—to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the one you don’t want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky one, brokenhearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well manicured⁠—say, girls, it’s galluptious⁠—don’t ever let it get by you.</p>
 			<p>And then, of course⁠—how did you guess it?⁠—the door opened and in stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.</p>
 			<p>The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen’s hand, and out of the window and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.</p>
-			<p>A little slow music, if you please⁠—faint violin, just a breath in the clarinet and a touch of the ’cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears them from his shoulders⁠—once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and that⁠—the stage manager will show you how⁠—and throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring groups of astonished guests.</p>
+			<p>A little slow music, if you please⁠—faint violin, just a breath in the clarinet and a touch of the cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears them from his shoulders⁠—once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and that⁠—the stage manager will show you how⁠—and throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring groups of astonished guests.</p>
 			<p>And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray, rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which must precede the rising of the curtain again.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls, nor did she sell it to a magazine.</p>
 			<p>One day a middle-aged moneymaking lawyer, who bought his legal cap and ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.</p>