Semanticate

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@@ -45,7 +45,7 @@
 				<p>The last I remember of that great discussion was my cousin deploring the fact that he “should ever sleep in the same bed with an Infidel!”</p>
 				<p>The next day he astonished me by telling the whole business to his father. This was quite outside all my codes. Uncle Nicodemus sprang it upon me at the midday meal.</p>
 				<p>“You been sayin’ queer things, George,” he said abruptly. “You better mind what you’re saying.”</p>
-				<p>“What did he say, father?” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Frapp.</p>
+				<p>“What did he say, father?” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Frapp.</p>
 				<p>“Things I couldn’t repeat,” said he.</p>
 				<p>“What things?” I asked hotly.</p>
 				<p>“Ask <em>’im</em>,” said my uncle, pointing with his knife to his informant, and making me realise the nature of my offence. My aunt looked at the witness. “Not⁠—?” she framed a question.</p>
@@ -172,8 +172,8 @@
 				<p>My mother looked at me. “I had hoped,” she said, “that Lady Drew would have done something for him⁠—” She stopped.</p>
 				<p>“In what way?” said my uncle.</p>
 				<p>“She might have spoken to someone, got him into something perhaps.⁠ ⁠…” She had the servant’s invincible persuasion that all good things are done by patronage.</p>
-				<p>“He is not the sort of boy for whom things are done,” she added, dismissing these dreams. “He doesn’t accommodate himself. When he thinks Lady Drew wishes a thing, he seems not to wish it. Towards <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Redgrave, too, he has been⁠—disrespectful⁠—he is like his father.”</p>
-				<p>“Who’s <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Redgrave?”</p>
+				<p>“He is not the sort of boy for whom things are done,” she added, dismissing these dreams. “He doesn’t accommodate himself. When he thinks Lady Drew wishes a thing, he seems not to wish it. Towards <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Redgrave, too, he has been⁠—disrespectful⁠—he is like his father.”</p>
+				<p>“Who’s <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Redgrave?”</p>
 				<p>“The Vicar.”</p>
 				<p>“A bit independent?” said my uncle, briskly.</p>
 				<p>“Disobedient,” said my mother. “He has no idea of his place. He seems to think he can get on by slighting people and flouting them. He’ll learn perhaps before it is too late.”</p>

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@@ -105,13 +105,13 @@
 				<p>She stood out among the other girls very distinctly because they dressed more than she did, struck emphatic notes of colour, startled one by novelties in hats and bows and things. I’ve always hated the rustle, the disconcerting colour boundaries, the smart unnatural angles of women’s clothes. Her plain black dress gave her a starkness.⁠ ⁠…</p>
 				<p>I do remember, though, how one afternoon I discovered the peculiar appeal of her form for me. I had been restless with my work and had finally slipped out of the Laboratory and come over to the Art Museum to lounge among the pictures. I came upon her in an odd corner of the Sheepshanks gallery, intently copying something from a picture that hung high. I had just been in the gallery of casts from the antique, my mind was all alive with my newly awakened sense of line, and there she stood with face upturned, her body drooping forward from the hips just a little⁠—memorably graceful⁠—feminine.</p>
 				<p>After that I know I sought to see her, felt a distinctive emotion at her presence, began to imagine things about her. I no longer thought of generalised womanhood or of this casual person or that. I thought of her.</p>
-				<p>An accident brought us together. I found myself one Monday morning in an omnibus staggering westward from Victoria⁠—I was returning from a Sunday I’d spent at Wimblehurst in response to a unique freak of hospitality on the part of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Mantell. She was the sole other inside passenger. And when the time came to pay her fare, she became an extremely scared, disconcerted and fumbling young woman; she had left her purse at home.</p>
+				<p>An accident brought us together. I found myself one Monday morning in an omnibus staggering westward from Victoria⁠—I was returning from a Sunday I’d spent at Wimblehurst in response to a unique freak of hospitality on the part of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mantell. She was the sole other inside passenger. And when the time came to pay her fare, she became an extremely scared, disconcerted and fumbling young woman; she had left her purse at home.</p>
 				<p>Luckily I had some money.</p>
 				<p>She looked at me with startled, troubled brown eyes; she permitted my proffered payment to the conductor with a certain ungraciousness that seemed a part of her shyness, and then as she rose to go, she thanked me with an obvious affectation of ease.</p>
 				<p>“Thank you so much,” she said in a pleasant soft voice; and then less gracefully, “Awfully kind of you, you know.”</p>
 				<p>I fancy I made polite noises. But just then I wasn’t disposed to be critical. I was full of the sense of her presence; her arm was stretched out over me as she moved past me, the gracious slenderness of her body was near me. The words we used didn’t seem very greatly to matter. I had vague ideas of getting out with her⁠—and I didn’t.</p>
 				<p>That encounter, I have no doubt, exercised me enormously. I lay awake at night rehearsing it, and wondering about the next phase of our relationship. That took the form of the return of my twopence. I was in the Science Library, digging something out of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Encyclopedia Britannica</i>, when she appeared beside me and placed on the open page an evidently premeditated thin envelope, bulgingly confessing the coins within.</p>
-				<p>“It was so very kind of you,” she said, “the other day. I don’t know what I should have done, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>⁠—”</p>
+				<p>“It was so very kind of you,” she said, “the other day. I don’t know what I should have done, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr>⁠—”</p>
 				<p>I supplied my name. “I knew,” I said, “you were a student here.”</p>
 				<p>“Not exactly a student. I⁠—”</p>
 				<p>“Well, anyhow, I knew you were here frequently. And I’m a student myself at the Consolidated Technical Schools.”</p>
@@ -127,9 +127,9 @@
 				<p>Her father spoke once in a large remote way of the claims of business engagements, and it was only long afterwards I realised that he was a supernumerary clerk in the Walham Green Gas Works and otherwise a useful man at home. He was a large, loose, fattish man with unintelligent brown eyes magnified by spectacles; he wore an ill-fitting frock-coat and a paper collar, and he showed me, as his great treasure and interest, a large Bible which he had grangerised with photographs of pictures. Also he cultivated the little garden-yard behind the house, and he had a small greenhouse with tomatoes. “I wish I ’ad ’eat,” he said. “One can do such a lot with ’eat. But I suppose you can’t ’ave everything you want in this world.”</p>
 				<p>Both he and Marion’s mother treated her with a deference that struck me as the most natural thing in the world. Her own manner changed, became more authoritative and watchful, her shyness disappeared. She had taken a line of her own I gathered, draped the mirror, got the secondhand piano, and broken her parents in.</p>
 				<p>Her mother must once have been a pretty woman; she had regular features and Marion’s hair without its lustre, but she was thin and careworn. The aunt, Miss Ramboat, was a large, abnormally shy person very like her brother, and I don’t recall anything she said on this occasion.</p>
-				<p>To begin with there was a good deal of tension, Marion was frightfully nervous and everyone was under the necessity of behaving in a mysteriously unreal fashion until I plunged, became talkative and made a certain ease and interest. I told them of the schools, of my lodgings, of Wimblehurst and my apprenticeship days. “There’s a lot of this Science about nowadays,” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramboat reflected; “but I sometimes wonder a bit what good it is?”</p>
+				<p>To begin with there was a good deal of tension, Marion was frightfully nervous and everyone was under the necessity of behaving in a mysteriously unreal fashion until I plunged, became talkative and made a certain ease and interest. I told them of the schools, of my lodgings, of Wimblehurst and my apprenticeship days. “There’s a lot of this Science about nowadays,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Ramboat reflected; “but I sometimes wonder a bit what good it is?”</p>
 				<p>I was young enough to be led into what he called “a bit of a discussion,” which Marion truncated before our voices became unduly raised. “I dare say,” she said, “there’s much to be said on both sides.”</p>
-				<p>I remember Marion’s mother asked me what church I attended, and that I replied evasively. After tea there was music and we sang hymns. I doubted if I had a voice when this was proposed, but that was held to be a trivial objection, and I found sitting close beside the sweep of hair from Marion’s brow had many compensations. I discovered her mother sitting in the horsehair armchair and regarding us sentimentally. I went for a walk with Marion towards Putney Bridge, and then there was more singing and a supper of cold bacon and pie, after which <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramboat and I smoked. During that walk, I remember, she told me the import of her sketchings and copyings in the museum. A cousin of a friend of hers whom she spoke of as Smithie, had developed an original business in a sort of tea-gown garment which she called a Persian Robe, a plain sort of wrap with a gaily embroidered yoke, and Marion went there and worked in the busy times. In the times that weren’t busy she designed novelties in yokes by an assiduous use of eyes and notebook in the museum, and went home and traced out the captured forms on the foundation material. “I don’t get much,” said Marion, “but it’s interesting, and in the busy times we work all day. Of course the workgirls are dreadfully common, but we don’t say much to them. And Smithie talks enough for ten.”</p>
+				<p>I remember Marion’s mother asked me what church I attended, and that I replied evasively. After tea there was music and we sang hymns. I doubted if I had a voice when this was proposed, but that was held to be a trivial objection, and I found sitting close beside the sweep of hair from Marion’s brow had many compensations. I discovered her mother sitting in the horsehair armchair and regarding us sentimentally. I went for a walk with Marion towards Putney Bridge, and then there was more singing and a supper of cold bacon and pie, after which <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Ramboat and I smoked. During that walk, I remember, she told me the import of her sketchings and copyings in the museum. A cousin of a friend of hers whom she spoke of as Smithie, had developed an original business in a sort of tea-gown garment which she called a Persian Robe, a plain sort of wrap with a gaily embroidered yoke, and Marion went there and worked in the busy times. In the times that weren’t busy she designed novelties in yokes by an assiduous use of eyes and notebook in the museum, and went home and traced out the captured forms on the foundation material. “I don’t get much,” said Marion, “but it’s interesting, and in the busy times we work all day. Of course the workgirls are dreadfully common, but we don’t say much to them. And Smithie talks enough for ten.”</p>
 				<p>I quite understood the workgirls were dreadfully common.</p>
 				<p>I don’t remember that the Walham Green ménage and the quality of these people, nor the light they threw on Marion, detracted in the slightest degree at that time from the intent resolve that held me to make her mine. I didn’t like them. But I took them as part of the affair. Indeed, on the whole, I think they threw her up by an effect of contrast; she was so obviously controlling them, so consciously superior to them.</p>
 				<p>More and more of my time did I give to this passion that possessed me. I began to think chiefly of ways of pleasing Marion, of acts of devotion, of treats, of sumptuous presents for her, of appeals she would understand. If at times she was manifestly unintelligent, if her ignorance became indisputable, I told myself her simple instincts were worth all the education and intelligence in the world. And to this day I think I wasn’t really wrong about her. There was something extraordinarily fine about her, something simple and high, that flickered in and out of her ignorance and commonness and limitations like the tongue from the mouth of a snake.⁠ ⁠…</p>

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 				<p>Directly I came into the room I appreciated the change in outlook that the achievement of Tono-Bungay had made almost as vividly as when I saw my uncle’s new hat. The furniture of the room struck upon my eye as almost stately. The chairs and sofa were covered with chintz which gave it a dim, remote flavour of Bladesover; the mantel, the cornice, the gas pendant were larger and finer than the sort of thing I had grown accustomed to in London. And I was shown in by a real housemaid with real tails to her cap, and great quantities of reddish hair. There was my aunt too looking bright and pretty, in a blue-patterned tea-wrap with bows that seemed to me the quintessence of fashion. She was sitting in a chair by the open window with quite a pile of yellow-labelled books on the occasional table beside her. Before the large, paper-decorated fireplace stood a three-tiered cake-stand displaying assorted cakes, and a tray with all the tea equipage except the teapot, was on the large centre-table. The carpet was thick, and a spice of adventure was given it by a number of dyed sheepskin mats.</p>
 				<p>“Hello!” said my aunt as I appeared. “It’s George!”</p>
 				<p>“Shall I serve the tea now, Mem?” said the real housemaid, surveying our greeting coldly.</p>
-				<p>“Not till <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ponderevo comes, Meggie,” said my aunt, and grimaced with extraordinary swiftness and virulence as the housemaid turned her back.</p>
+				<p>“Not till <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Ponderevo comes, Meggie,” said my aunt, and grimaced with extraordinary swiftness and virulence as the housemaid turned her back.</p>
 				<p>“Meggie she calls herself,” said my aunt as the door closed, and left me to infer a certain want of sympathy.</p>
 				<p>“You’re looking very jolly, aunt,” said I.</p>
 				<p>“What do you think of all this old business he’s got?” asked my aunt.</p>