Add z3998:name-title semantic to some abbreviations

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 			<p>“I’ll take the odds against Caravan.”</p>
 			<p>“In ponies?”</p>
 			<p>“Done.”</p>
-			<p>And Lord Milford, a young noble, entered in his book the bet which he had just made with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Latour, a grey headed member of the Jockey Club.</p>
+			<p>And Lord Milford, a young noble, entered in his book the bet which he had just made with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Latour, a grey headed member of the Jockey Club.</p>
 			<p>It was the eve of the Derby of <time datetime="1837">1837</time>. In a vast and golden saloon, that in its decorations would have become, and in its splendour would not have disgraced, Versailles in the days of the grand monarch, were assembled many whose hearts beat at the thought of the morrow, and whose brains still laboured to control its fortunes to their advantage.</p>
 			<p>“They say that Caravan looks puffy,” lisped in a low voice a young man, lounging on the edge of a buhl table that had once belonged to a Mortemart, and dangling a rich cane with affected indifference in order to conceal his anxiety from all, except the person whom he addressed.</p>
 			<p>“They are taking seven to two against him freely over the way,” was the reply. “I believe it’s all right.”</p>
@@ -27,14 +27,14 @@
 			<p>“I never go anywhere,” replied the melancholy Cupid, “everything bores me so.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, will you go to Epsom with us tomorrow, Alfred?” said Lord Fitzheron. “I take Berners and Charles Egremont, and with you our party will be perfect.”</p>
 			<p>“I feel so cursed blasé!” exclaimed the boy in a tone of elegant anguish.</p>
-			<p>“It will give you a fillip, Alfred,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Berners; “do you all the good in the world.”</p>
+			<p>“It will give you a fillip, Alfred,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Berners; “do you all the good in the world.”</p>
 			<p>“Nothing can do me good,” said Alfred, throwing away his almost untasted peach, “I should be quite content if anything could do me harm. Waiter, bring me a tumbler of Badminton.”</p>
 			<p>“And bring me one too,” sighed out Lord Eugene De Vere, who was a year older than Alfred Mountchesney, his companion and brother in listlessness. Both had exhausted life in their teens, and all that remained for them was to mourn, amid the ruins of their reminiscences, over the extinction of excitement.</p>
 			<p>“Well, Eugene, suppose you come with us,” said Lord Fitzheron.</p>
 			<p>“I think I shall go down to Hampton Court and play tennis,” said Lord Eugene. “As it is the Derby, nobody will be there.”</p>
 			<p>“And I will go with you, Eugene,” said Alfred Mountchesney, “and we will dine together afterwards at the Toy. Anything is better than dining in this infernal London.”</p>
-			<p>“Well, for my part,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Berners. “I do not like your suburban dinners. You always get something you can’t eat, and cursed bad wine.”</p>
-			<p>“I rather like bad wine,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Mountchesney; “one gets so bored with good wine.”</p>
+			<p>“Well, for my part,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Berners. “I do not like your suburban dinners. You always get something you can’t eat, and cursed bad wine.”</p>
+			<p>“I rather like bad wine,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mountchesney; “one gets so bored with good wine.”</p>
 			<p>“Do you want the odds against Hybiscus, Berners?” said a guardsman looking up from his book, which he had been very intently studying.</p>
 			<p>“All I want is some supper, and as you are not using your place⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“You shall have it. Oh! here’s Milford, he will give them me.”</p>
@@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
 			<p>“I saw you waltzing with the little Bertie, old fellow,” said Lord Fitzheron, “and therefore did not stay to speak to you, as I thought we should meet here. I am to call for you, mind.”</p>
 			<p>“How shall we all feel this time tomorrow?” said Egremont, smiling.</p>
 			<p>“The happiest fellow at this moment must be Cockie Graves,” said Lord Milford. “He can have no suspense. I have been looking over his book, and I defy him, whatever happens, not to lose.”</p>
-			<p>“Poor Cockie,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Berners; “he has asked me to dine with him at the Clarendon on Saturday.”</p>
+			<p>“Poor Cockie,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Berners; “he has asked me to dine with him at the Clarendon on Saturday.”</p>
 			<p>“Cockie is a very good Cockie,” said Lord Milford, “and Caravan is a very good horse; and if any gentleman sportsman present wishes to give seven to two, I will take him to any amount.”</p>
 			<p>“My book is made up,” said Egremont; “and I stand or fall by Caravan.”</p>
 			<p>“And I.”</p>
@@ -55,13 +55,13 @@
 			<p>“Yes; but fortunately I have got out of that scrape. I owe Phip Dormer a good turn for that. I was the third man who knew he had gone lame.”</p>
 			<p>“And what are the odds against him now.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh! nominal; forty to one⁠—what you please.”</p>
-			<p>“He won’t run,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Berners, “John Day told me he had refused to ride him.”</p>
+			<p>“He won’t run,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Berners, “John Day told me he had refused to ride him.”</p>
 			<p>“I believe Cockie Graves might win something if Phosphorus came in first,” said Lord Milford, laughing.</p>
 			<p>“How close it is tonight!” said Egremont. “Waiter, give me some Seltzer water; and open another window; open them all.”</p>
 			<p>At this moment an influx of guests intimated that the assembly at Lady <abbr>St.</abbr> Julian’s was broken up. Many at the table rose and yielded their places, clustering round the chimneypiece, or forming in various groups, and discussing the great question. Several of those who had recently entered were votaries of Rattrap, the favourite, and quite prepared, from all the information that had reached them, to back their opinions valiantly. The conversation had now become general and animated, or rather there was a medley of voices in which little was distinguished except the names of horses and the amount of odds. In the midst of all this, waiters glided about handing incomprehensible mixtures bearing aristocratic names; mystical combinations of French wines and German waters, flavoured with slices of Portugal fruits, and cooled with lumps of American ice, compositions which immortalized the creative genius of some high patrician name.</p>
 			<p>“By Jove! that’s a flash,” exclaimed Lord Milford, as a blaze of lightning seemed to suffuse the chamber, and the beaming lustres turned white and ghastly in the glare.</p>
 			<p>The thunder rolled over the building. There was a dead silence. Was it going to rain? Was it going to pour? Was the storm confined to the metropolis? Would it reach Epsom? A deluge, and the course would be a quagmire, and strength might baffle speed.</p>
-			<p>Another flash, another explosion, the hissing noise of rain. Lord Milford moved aside, and jealous of the eye of another, read a letter from Chifney, and in a few minutes afterwards offered to take the odds against Pocket Hercules. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Latour walked to the window, surveyed the heavens, sighed that there was not time to send his tiger from the door to Epsom, and get information whether the storm had reached the Surrey hills, for tonight’s operations. It was too late. So he took a rusk and a glass of lemonade, and retired to rest with a cool head and a cooler heart.</p>
+			<p>Another flash, another explosion, the hissing noise of rain. Lord Milford moved aside, and jealous of the eye of another, read a letter from Chifney, and in a few minutes afterwards offered to take the odds against Pocket Hercules. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Latour walked to the window, surveyed the heavens, sighed that there was not time to send his tiger from the door to Epsom, and get information whether the storm had reached the Surrey hills, for tonight’s operations. It was too late. So he took a rusk and a glass of lemonade, and retired to rest with a cool head and a cooler heart.</p>
 			<p>The storm raged, the incessant flash played as it were round the burnished cornice of the chamber, and threw a lurid hue on the scenes of Watteau and Boucher that sparkled in the medallions over the lofty doors. The thunderbolts seemed to descend in clattering confusion upon the roof. Sometimes there was a moment of dead silence, broken only by the pattering of the rain in the street without, or the pattering of the dice in a chamber at hand. Then horses were backed, bets made, and there were loud and frequent calls for brimming goblets from hurrying waiters, distracted by the lightning and deafened by the peal. It seemed a scene and a supper where the marble guest of Juan might have been expected, and had he arrived, he would have found probably hearts as bold and spirits as reckless as he encountered in Andalusia.</p>
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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 			<p>“No; I’ll take six.”</p>
 			<p>The tall, stiff peer in the white great coat mused for a moment with his pencil at his lip, and then said, “Well, I’ll give you six. What do you say about Mango?”</p>
 			<p>“Eleven to two against Mango,” called out a little humpbacked man in a shrill voice, but with the air of one who was master of his work.</p>
-			<p>“I should like to do a little business with you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Chippendale,” said Lord Milford in a coaxing tone, “but I must have six to one.”</p>
+			<p>“I should like to do a little business with you, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chippendale,” said Lord Milford in a coaxing tone, “but I must have six to one.”</p>
 			<p>“Eleven to two, and no mistake,” said this keeper of a second-rate gaming-house, who, known by the flattering appellation of Hump Chippendale, now turned with malignant abruptness from the heir apparent of an English earldom.</p>
 			<p>“You shall have six to one, my Lord,” said Captain Spruce, a debonair personage with a well-turned silk hat arranged a little aside, his coloured cravat tied with precision, his whiskers trimmed like a quickset hedge. Spruce, who had earned his title of Captain on the plains of Newmarket, which had witnessed for many a year his successful exploits, had a weakness for the aristocracy, who knowing his graceful infirmity patronized him with condescending dexterity, acknowledged his existence in Pall Mall as well as at Tattersalls, and thus occasionally got a point more than the betting out of him. Hump Chippendale had none of these gentle failings; he was a democratic leg, who loved to fleece a noble, and thought all men were born equal⁠—a consoling creed that was a hedge for his hump.</p>
 			<p>“Seven to four against the favourite; seven to two against Caravan; eleven to two against Mango. What about Benedict? Will anyone do anything about Pocket Hercules? Thirty to one against Dardanelles.”</p>
@@ -24,10 +24,10 @@
 			<p>“Forty to one!” murmured Egremont who stood against Phosphorus. A little nervous, he said to the peer in the white great coat, “Don’t you think that Phosphorus may after all have some chance?”</p>
 			<p>“I should be cursed sorry to be deep against him,” said the peer.</p>
 			<p>Egremont with a quivering lip walked away. He consulted his book; he meditated anxiously. Should he hedge? It was scarcely worth while to mar the symmetry of his winnings; he stood “so well” by all the favourites; and for a horse at forty to one. No; he would trust his star, he would not hedge.</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Chippendale,” whispered the peer in the white great coat, “go and press <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Egremont about Phosphorus. I should not be surprised if you got a good thing.”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chippendale,” whispered the peer in the white great coat, “go and press <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Egremont about Phosphorus. I should not be surprised if you got a good thing.”</p>
 			<p>At this moment, a huge, broad-faced, rosy-gilled fellow, with one of those good-humoured yet cunning countenances that we meet occasionally on the northern side of the Trent, rode up to the ring on a square cob and dismounting entered the circle. He was a carcase butcher, famous in Carnaby market, and the prime councillor of a distinguished nobleman for whom privately he betted on commission. His secret service today was to bet against his noble employer’s own horse, and so he at once sung out, “Twenty to one against Mantrap.”</p>
-			<p>A young gentleman just launched into the world, and who, proud of his ancient and spreading acres, was now making his first book, seeing Mantrap marked eighteen to one on the cards, jumped eagerly at this bargain, while Lord Fitzheron and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Berners who were at hand and who in their days had found their names in the book of the carcase butcher, and grown wise by it, interchanged a smile.</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Egremont will not take,” said Hump Chippendale to the peer in the white great coat.</p>
+			<p>A young gentleman just launched into the world, and who, proud of his ancient and spreading acres, was now making his first book, seeing Mantrap marked eighteen to one on the cards, jumped eagerly at this bargain, while Lord Fitzheron and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Berners who were at hand and who in their days had found their names in the book of the carcase butcher, and grown wise by it, interchanged a smile.</p>
+			<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Egremont will not take,” said Hump Chippendale to the peer in the white great coat.</p>
 			<p>“You must have been too eager,” said his noble friend.</p>
 			<p>The ring is up; the last odds declared; all gallop away to the Warren. A few minutes, only a few minutes, and the event that for twelve months has been the pivot of so much calculation, of such subtle combinations, of such deep conspiracies, round which the thought and passion of the sporting world have hung like eagles, will be recorded in the fleeting tablets of the past. But what minutes! Count them by sensation and not by calendars, and each moment is a day and the race a life. Hogarth in a coarse and yet animated sketch has painted “Before” and “After.” A creative spirit of a higher vein might develop the simplicity of the idea with sublimer accessories. Pompeius before Pharsalia, Harold before Hastings, Napoleon before Waterloo, might afford some striking contrasts to the immediate catastrophe of their fortunes. Finer still the inspired mariner who has just discovered a new world; the sage who has revealed a new planet; and yet the “Before” and “After” of a first-rate English race, in the degree of its excitement, and sometimes in the tragic emotions of its close, may vie even with these.</p>
 			<p>They are saddling the horses; Caravan looks in great condition; and a scornful smile seems to play upon the handsome features of Pavis, as in the becoming colours of his employer, he gracefully gallops his horse before his admiring supporters. Egremont in the delight of an English patrician scarcely saw Mango, and never even thought of Phosphorus⁠—Phosphorus, who, by the by, was the first horse that showed, with both his forelegs bandaged.</p>