Update <hgroup> children after first <h#> to <p>, ref. new HTML standard
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Alex Cabal
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<article id="a-professional-secret" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">A Professional Secret</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">The Story of a Maid Made Over</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">The Story of a Maid Made Over</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p><abbr>Dr.</abbr> Satterfield Prince, physician to the leisure class, looked at his watch. It indicated five minutes to twelve. At the stroke of the hour would expire the morning term set apart for the reception of his patients in his handsome office apartments. And then the young woman attendant ushered in from the waiting-room the last unit of the wealthy and fashionable gathering that had come to patronize his skill.</p>
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<p><abbr>Dr.</abbr> Prince turned, his watch still in hand, his manner courteous, but seeming to invite promptness and brevity in the interview. The last patient was a middle-aged lady, richly dressed, with an amiable and placid face. When she spoke her voice revealed the drawling, musical slur and intonation of the South. She had come, she leisurely explained, to bespeak the services of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Prince in the case of her daughter, who was possessed of a most mysterious affliction. And then, femininely, she proceeded to exhaustively diagnose the affliction, informing the physician with a calm certitude of its origin and nature.</p>
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<section id="lord-oakhursts-curse-3" epub:type="chapter">
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<hgroup>
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<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
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<h4 epub:type="title">The Curse</h4>
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<p epub:type="title">The Curse</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p>Sir Everhard FitzArmond descended the stairway of Oakhurst Castle and passed out into the avenue that led from the doorway to the great iron gates of the park. Lord Oakhurst had been a great sportsman during his life and always kept a well-stocked kennel of curs, which now rushed out from their hiding places and with loud yelps sprang upon the physician, burying their fangs in his lower limbs and seriously damaging his apparel.</p>
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<p>Sir Everhard, startled out of his professional dignity and usual indifference to human suffering, by the personal application of feeling, gave vent to a most horrible and blighting <b>curse</b> and ran with great swiftness to his carriage and drove off toward the city.</p>
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<article id="reconciliation" epub:type="se:short-story z3998:drama">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">Reconciliation</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">A One-Act Drama</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">A One-Act Drama</p>
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</hgroup>
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<div epub:type="z3998:dramatis-personae">
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<header>
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<article id="simmons-saturday-night" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">Simmon’s Saturday Night</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">How a Guileless Cattle Man Saw the Sights in Houston</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">How a Guileless Cattle Man Saw the Sights in Houston</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p>One fine Saturday afternoon a young man got off the 9:10 <abbr>p.m.</abbr> Katy train at the Houston depot, and looked about him in rather a bewildered way. He was deliriously pastoral in his appearance, and presented an aspect almost as rural as that of the young countryman upon the stage as depicted by our leading comedians. He wore a very long black coat of the cut that has perpetuated the name of the late Prince Albert, such as is seen on Sundays at country churches, a pair of pantaloons too short for his somewhat lengthy limbs, and a wondrously tied scarf of deep crimson spotted with green. His face was smoothly shaven, and wore a look of deep wonder, if not apprehension, and his blue eyes were stretched to their widest as he viewed the sights about him. In his hand he carried a long carpet bag of the old style, made of some shiny substance resembling black oil cloth.</p>
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<p>This young gentleman climbed nervously upon an electric car that was pointed out to him as going into the center of the city, and held his carpet bag upon his knees, clasping it with both hands, as if he distrusted the other people upon the car.</p>
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<article id="the-good-boy" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Good Boy</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">(Mostly in Words of One Syllable)</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">(Mostly in Words of One Syllable)</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p>James was a good boy.</p>
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<p>He would not tease his cat or his dog.</p>
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<article id="the-great-french-detective-in-austin" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Great French Detective, in Austin</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">A Successful Political Intrigue</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">A Successful Political Intrigue</p>
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</hgroup>
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<section id="the-great-french-detective-in-austin-1" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
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<article id="the-legend-of-san-jacinto" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Legend of San Jacinto</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">The Hermit of the Battle Ground Relates an Ancient Tradition to a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">The Hermit of the Battle Ground Relates an Ancient Tradition to a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p>The battle ground of San Jacinto is a historic spot, very dear to those who make the past reputation of Texas a personal matter. A Texan who does not thrill at the mention of the locality where General Sam Houston and other gentlemen named after the counties of Texas, captured Santa Anna and his portable bar and side arms, is a baseborn slave.</p>
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<p>A few days ago a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> reporter who has a friend who is a pilot on the tug boat <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Hoodoo Jane</i> went down the bayou to the battle ground with the intention of gathering from some of the old inhabitants a few of the stories and legends that are so plentiful concerning the events that occurred on that memorable spot.</p>
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<article id="the-proem" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Proem</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">By the Carpenter</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">By the Carpenter</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p>They will tell you in Anchuria, that President Miraflores, of that volatile republic, died by his own hand in the coast town of Coralio; that he had reached thus far in flight from the inconveniences of an imminent revolution; and that one hundred thousand dollars, government funds, which he carried with him in an American leather valise as a souvenir of his tempestuous administration, was never afterward recovered.</p>
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<p>For a <i xml:lang="es">real</i>, a boy will show you his grave. It is back of the town near a little bridge that spans a mangrove swamp. A plain slab of wood stands at its head. Someone has burned upon the headstone with a hot iron this inscription:</p>
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@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
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<article id="tracked-to-doom" epub:type="se:short-story">
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<hgroup>
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<h2 epub:type="title">Tracked to Doom</h2>
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<h3 epub:type="subtitle">The Mystery of the Rue de Peychaud</h3>
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<p epub:type="subtitle">The Mystery of the Rue de Peychaud</p>
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</hgroup>
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<p>’Tis midnight in Paris.</p>
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<p>A myriad of lamps that line the Champs Élysées and the Rouge et Noir, cast their reflection in the dark waters of the Seine as it flows gloomily past the Place Vendôme and the black walls of the Convent Notadam.</p>
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