Fix typos

src/epub/text/chapter-1-2.xhtml

@@ -72,7 +72,7 @@
 			<p>“What has he come for? He’s frightened out of his life.”</p>
 			<p>“Frightened?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, he himself told me. He says that he’s very nervous but that he must do everything that everyone else does⁠—for a certain reason. He got very excited when he talked to me and asked me whether I thought it would all be very terrible.”</p>
-			<p>“He is a nervous fussy little man. Russians are not cowards, but Audrey Vassilievitch lost his wife last year. He was very devoted to her⁠—very. He is miserable without her, they say. Perhaps he has come to the war to forget her.”</p>
+			<p>“He is a nervous fussy little man. Russians are not cowards, but Andrey Vassilievitch lost his wife last year. He was very devoted to her⁠—very. He is miserable without her, they say. Perhaps he has come to the war to forget her.”</p>
 			<p>I was surprised at Trenchard’s interest; I had thought him so wrapt in his own especial affair that nothing outside it could occupy him. But he continued:</p>
 			<p>“He knew the tall doctor⁠—Nikitin⁠—before, didn’t he?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes.⁠ ⁠… Nikitin knew his wife.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-1-3.xhtml

@@ -110,7 +110,7 @@
 			<p>As I turned to see him sitting on the stretcher with his back to me, his head hanging a little as though it were too heavy for his neck, his back bent, his long arms fallen loose at his sides, I thought that Alice’s White Knight he, in solemn truth, presented.</p>
 			<p>He had a talent for doing things to his uniform. His cap, instead of being raised in front, was flat, his jacket bulged out above his belt, and the straps on his boot had broken from their holdings. He filled the pockets of his trousers, in moments of absentminded absorption, with articles that he fancied that he would need⁠—sometimes food, black bread and sausage, sometimes a large pocketknife, a folding drinking glass, a ball of string, a notebook. These things protruded, or gave his clothes a strange bulky look, fat in some places, thin in others. As I saw him his shoulder-blades seemed to pierce his coat: I could fancy with what agitation his hands were clenched.</p>
 			<p>We sat down, the three of us together, and again the battery leapt upon us. Now the sun was hot above the trees and the effect of the noise behind us was that we ourselves, every two or three minutes, were caught up, flung to the ground, recovered, breathless, exhausted, only to be hurled again!</p>
-			<p>How miserable we were, how lost, how desolate, Trenchard hearing in every sound the death of his lady, Audrey Vassilievitch dreaming, I fancy, that he had been caught in some cage out of which he would never again escape. I, sick, almost blind with headache, and yet exasperated, irritated by the emptiness of it all. If only we might run down that hill! There surely we should find.⁠ ⁠…</p>
+			<p>How miserable we were, how lost, how desolate, Trenchard hearing in every sound the death of his lady, Andrey Vassilievitch dreaming, I fancy, that he had been caught in some cage out of which he would never again escape. I, sick, almost blind with headache, and yet exasperated, irritated by the emptiness of it all. If only we might run down that hill! There surely we should find.⁠ ⁠…</p>
 			<p>At the very moment when the battery had finished as it seemed to me its work of smashing my head into pulp the wagon arrived.</p>
 			<p><q>Now,</q> I thought to myself as I climbed on to the straw, <q>I shall begin to be excited!</q> We, all three of us, kneeling on the cart, peered forward into the dim blue afternoon. We were very silent⁠—only once Trenchard said to me, “Perhaps we shall find her down here: where we’re going. What do you think, Durward?”</p>
 			<p>“I’m afraid not!” I answered. “But still she’ll be all right. Semyonov will look after her!”</p>