Fix typos

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@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>“Yes, ’m.”</p>
 			<p>“And you know my ways, don’t you? That’s fortunate.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, ’m.”</p>
-			<p>While they were drinking the tea and eating pieces of bread, Violet nicely pretending to be Elsie’s equal in the sight of God, and Elsie gently firm in maintaining the theory of the impassableness of the social chasm which separated them. Violet said:</p>
+			<p>While they were drinking the tea and eating pieces of bread, Violet nicely pretending to be Elsie’s equal in the sight of God, and Elsie gently firm in maintaining the theory of the impassableness of the social chasm which separated them, Violet said:</p>
 			<p>“I’m sure we shall understand one another, Elsie. Of course you’ve been here on and off for a long while, and you’ve got your little habits here, and quite right too, and I’ve no doubt very good habits, because I’m convinced you’re very conscientious in your work; if you hadn’t been I shouldn’t have kept you; but we’ve got to start afresh in this house, haven’t we?”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, <em>yes</em>, ’m!” Elsie eagerly concurred.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, and the first thing to do is to get straight and tidy. I know it’s Sunday, and I’m as much for rest and church as anybody, and I hope you’ll go to church yourself every Sunday evening regular. But tradespeople aren’t like others, and they can’t be. There’s certain things that can only be done on Sundays in a place of business⁠—same as they have to lay railway lines on Sundays, you see. And what’s more, I’m one of those that can’t <em>rest</em> until what has to be done <em>is</em> done. They do say, the better the day the better the deed, don’t they? Now all those books lying about on the floor and so on everywhere⁠—they’ve got to be put right.”</p>

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@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
 			<p>“You know that’s rather unfair,” Henry muttered.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Unfair,’ is it? ‘Unfair’? A nice word for you to use. So I know it’s unfair, do I? I’m being ‘unfair,’ am I?” She looked straight at him. Her eyes blazed at him, and she added solemnly: “Henry, you ought to be <em>ashamed</em> of yourself, the way you go on. What do you think Elsie thinks? The marvel is that she stays here. Supposing she left us and started to talk! You ought to be <em>ashamed</em> of yourself.”</p>
 			<p>She dropped back into her chair and sobbed loudly. If Elsie heard her, what matter? In her rage she had put facts into words, and thereby given them life, devastating life. In two minutes she had transformed the domestic interior from heaven into hell. She had done something which could never be undone. Words had created that which no words could destroy. And he had driven her to it. She gazed at him once more, across the ruins of their primitive and austere bliss.</p>
-			<p>“You’re shortening your life. That’s what you’re doing,” she said, with chill ferocity. “Not to speak of mine. What’s mine? What did you have for your dinner out today’ You daren’t tell me because you starved yourself. I defy you to tell me.”</p>
+			<p>“You’re shortening your life. That’s what you’re doing,” she said, with chill ferocity. “Not to speak of mine. What’s mine? What did you have for your dinner out today? You daren’t tell me because you starved yourself. I defy you to tell me.”</p>
 			<p>She laid her head on the table just like a schoolgirl abandoning herself utterly to some girlish grief, and went on crying, but not angrily and rebelliously now⁠—mournfully, self-pityingly, tragically. And then she sat up straight again, with suddenness, and shot new fire from her wet eyes at the tyrannic monster.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, and you needn’t think I’ve been spending money on servant’s caps, either! Because I haven’t. I know no more about that cap of Elsie’s than you do. God alone knows where she’s got it from, and why she’s wearing it. But I give servants up.” (Here Henry had an absurd wild glimmer of hope that she meant to give Elsie up, do without a servant, and so save wages and food. But he saw the next instant that he had misunderstood her words.) “They’re past me, servants are! Only, of course, you think it’s me been buying caps for the girl!”</p>
 			<p>This was the last flaring of her furious resentment. Instead of replying to it, Henry softly left the room. Violet’s sobs died down, and her compassion for herself grew silent, since there was no longer need for its expression. She tried hard to concentrate on the hardships of her lot, but she could not. Another idea insisted on occupying her mind, and compared to this idea the hardships of her lot were trifles.</p>

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@@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
 				<p>
 					<span>“ ‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen</span>
 					<br/>
-					<span>And waste its sweetness on the desert air.’ ”</span>
+					<span>And waste its sweetness on the desart air.’ ”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
 			<p class="continued">he read. “Funny way of spelling ‘desert,’ <em>a</em>, r, t. But this is very interesting. ‘Full many a flower⁠—’ So that’s Gray, is it? Very interesting.” He was quite uplifted by the sight of familiar words in an old book. “It’s very clean <em>in</em>side. Suppose it’s worth a lot of money. I’m sure you’re very generous, very generous indeed.” Violet paused in making up the second parcel.</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>And, on her part, Violet saw in Henry a man not of any age, simply a man: egotistic, ruthless, childish, naughty, illogical, incalculable, the supreme worry of her life; a destroyer of happiness; a man indefensible for his misdeeds, but very powerful and inexplicably romantic, different from all other men whatsoever. She hated him; her resentment against him was very keen, and yet she wanted to fondle him, physically and spiritually; and this desire maintained itself not without success in opposition to all her grievances, and, compared to it, her sufferings and his had but a minor consequence.</p>
 			<p>“Well, how do you feel?” he repeated.</p>
 			<p>The repetition aroused Violet’s courage. She paused before speaking, and in the pause she matured a magnificent, a sublime enterprise of attack. She had a feeling akin to inspiration. She flouted his illness, his tremendous power, her own weakness and pain. She did not care what happened. No risk could check her.</p>
-			<p>“You don’t care how I am!” she began quietly and bitterly. “Did you show the slightest in me all yesterday? Not one bit. You thought only of yourself. You pretended you were ill. Well, if you weren’t, why couldn’t you think about me? But you were ill. Not that that excuses you! However ill I was, I should be thinking about you all the time. But I say you were ill, and I say it again. You only told me a lot of lies about yourself, one lie after another. Why <em>do</em> you keep yourself to yourself? It’s an insult to me, all this hiding, and you know it. I suppose you think I’m not good enough to be told! I can tell you one thing, and I’ve said it before, and this is the last time I ever shall say it⁠—you’ve taught me to sew my mouth up, too; that’s what you’ve done with your everlasting secrecy. I always said you’re the most selfish and cruel man that ever was. You’re ill, and the doctor says you ought to go to a hospital⁠—and you won’t. Why? Doesn’t everybody go into a hospital some time or another? A hospital’s not good for you⁠—that’s it. It suits you better to stop here and be nursed night and day by your wife. Don’t matter how ill <em>I</em> am! I’ve got to nurse you <em>and</em> look after the shop as well. It’ll kill me; but a fat lot you care about that. And if you hadn’t deceived me and told me a lot of lies you might have been all right by this time, because I should have had the doctor in earlier, and we should have known where we were then. But how was I to know how ill you are? How was I to know I’d married a liar besides a miser?”</p>
+			<p>“You don’t care how I am!” she began quietly and bitterly. “Did you show the slightest interest in me all yesterday? Not one bit. You thought only of yourself. You pretended you were ill. Well, if you weren’t, why couldn’t you think about me? But you were ill. Not that that excuses you! However ill I was, I should be thinking about you all the time. But I say you were ill, and I say it again. You only told me a lot of lies about yourself, one lie after another. Why <em>do</em> you keep yourself to yourself? It’s an insult to me, all this hiding, and you know it. I suppose you think I’m not good enough to be told! I can tell you one thing, and I’ve said it before, and this is the last time I ever shall say it⁠—you’ve taught me to sew my mouth up, too; that’s what you’ve done with your everlasting secrecy. I always said you’re the most selfish and cruel man that ever was. You’re ill, and the doctor says you ought to go to a hospital⁠—and you won’t. Why? Doesn’t everybody go into a hospital some time or another? A hospital’s not good for you⁠—that’s it. It suits you better to stop here and be nursed night and day by your wife. Don’t matter how ill <em>I</em> am! I’ve got to nurse you <em>and</em> look after the shop as well. It’ll kill me; but a fat lot you care about that. And if you hadn’t deceived me and told me a lot of lies you might have been all right by this time, because I should have had the doctor in earlier, and we should have known where we were then. But how was I to know how ill you are? How was I to know I’d married a liar besides a miser?”</p>
 			<p>Henry interjected quietly:</p>
 			<p>“I told you long ago that the reason I didn’t eat was because I’d got indigestion. But you wouldn’t believe me.”</p>
 			<p>Violet’s voice rose:</p>