Fix typos

src/epub/text/chapter-2-6.xhtml

@@ -74,7 +74,7 @@
 			<p>Her breathing now imperceptibly raised the cotton covering. Big tears lay in the corner of the half-closed eyelids, through whose lashes one could see two pale sunken pupils; the plaster stuck on her cheek drew the skin obliquely.</p>
 			<p>“It is very strange,” thought Emma, “how ugly this child is!”</p>
 			<p>When at eleven o’clock Charles came back from the chemist’s shop, whither he had gone after dinner to return the remainder of the sticking-plaster, he found his wife standing by the cradle.</p>
-			<p>“I assure you it’s nothing.” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “Don’t worry, my poor darling; you will make yourself ill.”</p>
+			<p>“I assure you it’s nothing,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “Don’t worry, my poor darling; you will make yourself ill.”</p>
 			<p>He had stayed a long time at the chemist’s. Although he had not seemed much moved, Homais, nevertheless, had exerted himself to buoy him up, to “keep up his spirits.” Then they had talked of the various dangers that threaten childhood, of the carelessness of servants. Madame Homais knew something of it, having still upon her chest the marks left by a basin full of soup that a cook had formerly dropped on her pinafore, and her good parents took no end of trouble for her. The knives were not sharpened, nor the floors waxed; there were iron gratings to the windows and strong bars across the fireplace; the little Homais, in spite of their spirit, could not stir without someone watching them; at the slightest cold their father stuffed them with pectorals; and until they were turned four they all, without pity, had to wear wadded head-protectors. This, it is true, was a fancy of Madame Homais’; her husband was inwardly afflicted at it. Fearing the possible consequences of such compression to the intellectual organs, he even went so far as to say to her, “Do you want to make Caribs or Botocudos of them?”</p>
 			<p>Charles, however, had several times tried to interrupt the conversation. “I should like to speak to you,” he had whispered in the clerk’s ear, who went upstairs in front of him.</p>
 			<p>“Can he suspect anything?” Léon asked himself. His heart beat, and he racked his brain with surmises.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-3-9.xhtml

@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>“Farewell! farewell!”</p>
 			<p>Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room.</p>
 			<p>“Restrain yourself!”</p>
-			<p>“Yes.” said he, struggling, “I’ll be quiet. I’ll not do anything. But leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!”</p>
+			<p>“Yes,” said he, struggling, “I’ll be quiet. I’ll not do anything. But leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!”</p>
 			<p>And he wept.</p>
 			<p>“Cry,” said the chemist; “let nature take her course; that will solace you.”</p>
 			<p>Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into the sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the Place he was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as Yonville, in the hope of getting the antiphlogistic pomade, was asking every passerby where the druggist lived.</p>
@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last began to shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen.</p>
 			<p>At six o’clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the Place; it was the Hirondelle coming in, and he remained with his forehead against the windowpane, watching all the passengers get out, one after the other. Félicité put down a mattress for him in the drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep.</p>
 			<p>Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So bearing no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up with the body; bringing with him three volumes and a pocketbook for taking notes.</p>
-			<p>Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this “unfortunate young woman.” and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.</p>
+			<p>Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this “unfortunate young woman,” and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.</p>
 			<p>“Yet,” Homais went on, “one of two things; either she died in a state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less necessary to pray.</p>
 			<p>“But,” objected the chemist, “since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer?”</p>