Update <hgroup> children after first <h#> to <p>, ref. new HTML standard

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-1" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Two Poets of Saffron Park</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Two Poets of Saffron Park</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its skyline was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them. Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect. The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not “artists,” the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face⁠—that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat⁠—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, birdlike neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.</p>
 			<p>More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud. This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero. It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. His dark red hair parted in the middle was literally like a woman’s, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-10" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Duel</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Duel</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Syme sat down at a café table with his companions, his blue eyes sparkling like the bright sea below, and ordered a bottle of Saumur with a pleased impatience. He was for some reason in a condition of curious hilarity. His spirits were already unnaturally high; they rose as the Saumur sank, and in half an hour his talk was a torrent of nonsense. He professed to be making out a plan of the conversation which was going to ensue between himself and the deadly Marquis. He jotted it down wildly with a pencil. It was arranged like a printed catechism, with questions and answers, and was delivered with an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.</p>
 			<p>“I shall approach. Before taking off his hat, I shall take off my own. I shall say, ‘The Marquis de Saint Eustache, I believe.’ He will say, ‘The celebrated <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Syme, I presume.’ He will say in the most exquisite French, ‘How are you?’ I shall reply in the most exquisite Cockney, ‘Oh, just the Syme⁠—’ ”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-11" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Criminals Chase the Police</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Criminals Chase the Police</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Syme put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief.</p>
 			<p>“The President is not with them, anyhow,” he said, and wiped his forehead.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-12" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Earth in Anarchy</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Earth in Anarchy</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Urging the horses to a gallop, without respect to the rather rugged descent of the road, the horsemen soon regained their advantage over the men on the march, and at last the bulk of the first buildings of Lancy cut off the sight of their pursuers. Nevertheless, the ride had been a long one, and by the time they reached the real town the west was warming with the colour and quality of sunset. The Colonel suggested that, before making finally for the police station, they should make the effort, in passing, to attach to themselves one more individual who might be useful.</p>
 			<p>“Four out of the five rich men in this town,” he said, “are common swindlers. I suppose the proportion is pretty equal all over the world. The fifth is a friend of mine, and a very fine fellow; and what is even more important from our point of view, he owns a motorcar.”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-13" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Pursuit of the President</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Pursuit of the President</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Next morning five bewildered but hilarious people took the boat for Dover. The poor old Colonel might have had some cause to complain, having been first forced to fight for two factions that didn’t exist, and then knocked down with an iron lantern. But he was a magnanimous old gentleman, and being much relieved that neither party had anything to do with dynamite, he saw them off on the pier with great geniality.</p>
 			<p>The five reconciled detectives had a hundred details to explain to each other. The Secretary had to tell Syme how they had come to wear masks originally in order to approach the supposed enemy as fellow-conspirators.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-14" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Six Philosophers</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Six Philosophers</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Across green fields, and breaking through blooming hedges, toiled six draggled detectives, about five miles out of London. The optimist of the party had at first proposed that they should follow the balloon across South England in hansom-cabs. But he was ultimately convinced of the persistent refusal of the balloon to follow the roads, and the still more persistent refusal of the cabmen to follow the balloon. Consequently the tireless though exasperated travellers broke through black thickets and ploughed through ploughed fields till each was turned into a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp. Those green hills of Surrey saw the final collapse and tragedy of the admirable light grey suit in which Syme had set out from Saffron Park. His silk hat was broken over his nose by a swinging bough, his coattails were torn to the shoulder by arresting thorns, the clay of England was splashed up to his collar; but he still carried his yellow beard forward with a silent and furious determination, and his eyes were still fixed on that floating ball of gas, which in the full flush of sunset seemed coloured like a sunset cloud.</p>
 			<p>“After all,” he said, “it is very beautiful!”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-15" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Accuser</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Accuser</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man’s eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question.</p>
 			<p>If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-2" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Secret of Gabriel Syme</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Secret of Gabriel Syme</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>The cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded.</p>
 			<p>“Will you take a little supper?” asked Gregory politely. “The pâté de foie gras is not good here, but I can recommend the game.”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-3" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Man Who Was Thursday</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Man Who Was Thursday</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory’s stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt’s revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand.</p>
 			<p>“Don’t be such a silly man,” he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. “Don’t you see it’s not necessary? Don’t you see that we’re both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly seasick.”</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-4" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Tale of a Detective</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Tale of a Detective</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Gabriel Syme was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion. He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions. One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism.</p>
 			<p>Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left⁠—sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual⁠—quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-5" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Feast of Fear</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Feast of Fear</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>At first the large stone stair seemed to Syme as deserted as a pyramid; but before he reached the top he had realised that there was a man leaning over the parapet of the Embankment and looking out across the river. As a figure he was quite conventional, clad in a silk hat and frock-coat of the more formal type of fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole. As Syme drew nearer to him step by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven⁠—clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir.</p>
 			<p>At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a waxwork, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-6" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Exposure</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Exposure</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Such were the six men who had sworn to destroy the world. Again and again Syme strove to pull together his common sense in their presence. Sometimes he saw for an instant that these notions were subjective, that he was only looking at ordinary men, one of whom was old, another nervous, another shortsighted. The sense of an unnatural symbolism always settled back on him again. Each figure seemed to be, somehow, on the borderland of things, just as their theory was on the borderland of thought. He knew that each one of these men stood at the extreme end, so to speak, of some wild road of reasoning. He could only fancy, as in some old-world fable, that if a man went westward to the end of the world he would find something⁠—say a tree⁠—that was more or less than a tree, a tree possessed by a spirit; and that if he went east to the end of the world he would find something else that was not wholly itself⁠—a tower, perhaps, of which the very shape was wicked. So these figures seemed to stand up, violent and unaccountable, against an ultimate horizon, visions from the verge. The ends of the earth were closing in.</p>
 			<p>Talk had been going on steadily as he took in the scene; and not the least of the contrasts of that bewildering breakfast-table was the contrast between the easy and unobtrusive tone of talk and its terrible purport. They were deep in the discussion of an actual and immediate plot. The waiter downstairs had spoken quite correctly when he said that they were talking about bombs and kings. Only three days afterwards the Czar was to meet the President of the French Republic in Paris, and over their bacon and eggs upon their sunny balcony these beaming gentlemen had decided how both should die. Even the instrument was chosen; the black-bearded Marquis, it appeared, was to carry the bomb.</p>

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 		<section id="chapter-7" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Unaccountable Conduct of Professor de Worms</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Unaccountable Conduct of Professor de Worms</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>“Sit down!” said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords.</p>
 			<p>The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat.</p>