Titlecase some items

src/epub/text/chapter-3.xhtml

@@ -33,8 +33,8 @@
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>“There!” he thought. “That will convey to her the first element of book morality.”</p>
 			<p>These decorations having been displayed on the walls, he bethought himself of the books that should stand on the bedside shelf.</p>
-			<p>This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion. Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest room are of a soporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. This school advises <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Wealth of Nations</i>, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Rome under the Caesars</i>, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Statesman’s Year Book</i>, certain novels of Henry James, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Letters of Queen Victoria</i> (in three volumes). It is plausibly contended that books of this kind cannot be read (late at night) for more than a few minutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of information.</p>
-			<p>Another branch of opinion recommends for bedtime reading short stories, volumes of pithy anecdote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep one awake for a space, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in the end. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonable by these pundits. This class of reading comprises <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry, Bret Harte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. W.</abbr> Jacobs, Daudet, de Maupassant, and possibly even <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">On a Slow Train Through Arkansas</i>, that grievous classic of the railway bookstalls whereof its author, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Jackson, has said “It will sell forever, and a thousand years afterward.” To this might be added another of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jackson’s onslaughts on the human intelligence, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">I’m From Texas, You Can’t Steer Me</i>, whereof is said (by the author) “It is like a hard-boiled egg, you can’t beat it.” There are other of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jackson’s books, whose titles escape memory, whereof he has said “They are a dynamite for sorrow.” Nothing used to annoy Mifflin more than to have someone come in and ask for copies of these works. His brother-in-law, Andrew McGill, the writer, once gave him for Christmas (just to annoy him) a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">On a Slow Train Through Arkansas</i> sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known to the trade as “dove-coloured ooze.” Roger retorted by sending Andrew (for his next birthday) two volumes of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Brann the Iconoclast</i> bound in what Robert Cortes Holliday calls “embossed toad skin.” But that is apart from the story.</p>
+			<p>This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion. Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest room are of a soporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. This school advises <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Wealth of Nations</i>, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Rome Under the Caesars</i>, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Statesman’s Year Book</i>, certain novels of Henry James, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Letters of Queen Victoria</i> (in three volumes). It is plausibly contended that books of this kind cannot be read (late at night) for more than a few minutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of information.</p>
+			<p>Another branch of opinion recommends for bedtime reading short stories, volumes of pithy anecdote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep one awake for a space, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in the end. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonable by these pundits. This class of reading comprises <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry, Bret Harte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W. W.</abbr> Jacobs, Daudet, de Maupassant, and possibly even <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">On a Slow Train Through Arkansas</i>, that grievous classic of the railway bookstalls whereof its author, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Thomas <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> Jackson, has said “It will sell forever, and a thousand years afterward.” To this might be added another of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jackson’s onslaughts on the human intelligence, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">I’m from Texas, You Can’t Steer Me</i>, whereof is said (by the author) “It is like a hard-boiled egg, you can’t beat it.” There are other of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jackson’s books, whose titles escape memory, whereof he has said “They are a dynamite for sorrow.” Nothing used to annoy Mifflin more than to have someone come in and ask for copies of these works. His brother-in-law, Andrew McGill, the writer, once gave him for Christmas (just to annoy him) a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">On a Slow Train Through Arkansas</i> sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known to the trade as “dove-coloured ooze.” Roger retorted by sending Andrew (for his next birthday) two volumes of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Brann the Iconoclast</i> bound in what Robert Cortes Holliday calls “embossed toad skin.” But that is apart from the story.</p>
 			<p>To the consideration of what to put on Miss Titania’s bookshelf Roger devoted the delighted hours of the morning. Several times Helen called him to come down and attend to the shop, but he was sitting on the floor, unaware of numbed shins, poring over the volumes he had carted upstairs for a final culling. “It will be a great privilege,” he said to himself, “to have a young mind to experiment with. Now my wife, delightful creature though she is, was⁠—well, distinctly mature when I had the good fortune to meet her; I have never been able properly to supervise her mental processes. But this Chapman girl will come to us wholly unlettered. Her father said she had been to a fashionable school: that surely is a guarantee that the delicate tendrils of her mind have never begun to sprout. I will test her (without her knowing it) by the books I put here for her. By noting which of them she responds to, I will know how to proceed. It might be worth while to shut up the shop one day a week in order to give her some brief talks on literature. Delightful! Let me see, a little series of talks on the development of the English novel, beginning with <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Tom Jones</i>⁠—hum, that would hardly do! Well, I have always longed to be a teacher, this looks like a chance to begin. We might invite some of the neighbours to send in their children once a week, and start a little school. <i xml:lang="fr">Causeries du lundi</i>, in fact! Who knows I may yet be the Sainte Beuve of Brooklyn.”</p>
 			<p>Across his mind flashed a vision of newspaper clippings⁠—“This remarkable student of letters, who hides his brilliant parts under the unassuming existence of a secondhand bookseller, is now recognized as the⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Roger!” called <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Mifflin from downstairs: “Front! someone wants to know if you keep back numbers of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Foamy Stories</i>.”</p>
@@ -103,7 +103,7 @@
 			<p>“No more, thank you,” said Helen. “There ought to be a fine for using the meter of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Love in the Valley</i> that way. I’m going out to market so if the bell rings you’ll have to answer it.”</p>
 			<p>Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania’s shelf, and went on browsing over the volumes he had collected.</p>
 			<p>“<i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Nigger of the Narcissus</i>,” he said to himself, “for even if she doesn’t read the story perhaps she’ll read the preface, which not marble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens’ <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Christmas Stories</i> to introduce her to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Lirriper, the queen of landladies. Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for the famous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how many of them know that that was where <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Lirriper had her immortal lodgings? The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Notebooks of Samuel Butler</i>, just to give her a little intellectual jazz. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Wrong Box</i>, because it’s the best farce in the language. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Travels with a Donkey</i>, to show her what good writing is like. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse</i> to give her a sense of pity for human woes⁠—wait a minute, though: that’s a pretty broad book for young ladies. I guess we’ll put it aside and see what else there is. Some of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Mosher’s catalogues: fine! they’ll show her the true spirit of what one booklover calls biblio-bliss. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Walking-Stick Papers</i>⁠—yes, there are still good essayists running around. A bound file of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Publishers’ Weekly</i> to give her a smack of trade matters. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Jo’s Boys</i> in case she needs a little relaxation. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Lays of Ancient Rome</i> and Austin Dobson to show her some good poetry. I wonder if they give them <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Lays</i> to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fear they are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of ’76. And now we’ll be exceptionally subtle: we’ll stick in a Robert Chambers to see if she falls for it.”</p>
-			<p>He viewed the shelf with pride. “Not bad,” he said to himself. “I’ll just add this Leonard Merrick, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Whispers about Women</i>, to amuse her. I bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have included the Bible, but I’ll omit it on purpose, just to see whether the girl misses it.”</p>
+			<p>He viewed the shelf with pride. “Not bad,” he said to himself. “I’ll just add this Leonard Merrick, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Whispers About Women</i>, to amuse her. I bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have included the Bible, but I’ll omit it on purpose, just to see whether the girl misses it.”</p>
 			<p>With typical male curiosity he pulled out the bureau drawers to see what disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find a little muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in each. “Very nice,” he remarked. “Very nice indeed! About the only thing missing is an ashtray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them, that’ll be the first thing she’ll call for. And maybe a copy of Ezra Pound’s poems. I do hope she’s not what Helen calls a bolshevixen.”</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew up at the corner of Gissing and Swinburne streets early that afternoon. A chauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase of beautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision that emerged from depths of lilac-coloured upholstery.</p>