Correct typo

src/epub/text/chapter-20.xhtml

@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Pickering relit the stump of his cigar defiantly and smoked in long gulps for a while. He was trying to persuade himself that all this was untrue, but it was not easy. The cigar became uncomfortably hot, and he threw it away. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a diamond ring, at which he looked pensively.</p>
 			<p>“A pretty thing, is it not?” said Subconscious Self, like a disembodied Eddie Foy.</p>
 			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Pickering sighed. That moment when Claire had thrown the ring at his feet and swept out of his life like an offended queen had been the culminating blow of a night of blows, the knockout following on a series of minor punches. Subconscious Self seized the opportunity to become offensive again.</p>
-			<p>“You’ve lost her, all through your own silly fault,” it said, discarding Eddie Foy and adopting in preference the conversational methods of the late Bildad the Shuhite. “How on earth you can have been such a perfect fool beats me. Running round with a gun like a boy of fourteen! Well, it’s done now and it can’t be mended. Countermand the order for cake, send a wire putting off the minister, dismiss the bridesmaids, tell the organist he can stop practicing ‘<span epub:type="se:name.music.song">The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden</span>‘⁠—no wedding bells for you. For Dudley Damfool Pickering, Esquire, the lonely hearth forevermore. Little feet pattering about the house? Not on your life! Childish voices sticking up the old man for half a dollar to buy candy? No, sir! Not for <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Bonehead Pickering, the amateur trailing arbutus!”</p>
+			<p>“You’ve lost her, all through your own silly fault,” it said, discarding Eddie Foy and adopting in preference the conversational methods of the late Bildad the Shuhite. “How on earth you can have been such a perfect fool beats me. Running round with a gun like a boy of fourteen! Well, it’s done now and it can’t be mended. Countermand the order for cake, send a wire putting off the minister, dismiss the bridesmaids, tell the organist he can stop practicing ‘<span epub:type="se:name.music.song">The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden</span>’⁠—no wedding bells for you. For Dudley Damfool Pickering, Esquire, the lonely hearth forevermore. Little feet pattering about the house? Not on your life! Childish voices sticking up the old man for half a dollar to buy candy? No, sir! Not for <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Bonehead Pickering, the amateur trailing arbutus!”</p>
 			<p>Subconscious Self may have had an undesirable way of expressing itself, but there was no denying the truth of what it said. Its words carried conviction. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Pickering replaced the ring in his pocket and, burying his head in his hands, groaned in bitterness of spirit.</p>
 			<p>He had lost her. He must face the fact. She had thrown him over. Never now would she sit at his table, the brightest jewel of Detroit’s glittering social life. She would have made a stir in Detroit. Now that city would never know her. Not that he was worrying much about Detroit. He was worrying about himself. How could he ever live without her?</p>
 			<p>This mood of black depression endured for a while, and then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Pickering suddenly became aware that Subconscious Self was sneering at him.</p>