Use no-break hyphen for sounds

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 		<dc:language>en-US</dc:language>
 		<dc:source>https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/543</dc:source>
 		<dc:source>https://books.google.com/books?id=lwNbAAAAMAAJ</dc:source>
-		<meta property="se:word-count">171822</meta>
+		<meta property="se:word-count">171830</meta>
 		<meta property="se:reading-ease.flesch">73.07</meta>
 		<meta property="se:url.encyclopedia.wikipedia">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Street_(novel)</meta>
 		<meta property="se:url.vcs.github">https://github.com/standardebooks/sinclair-lewis_main-street</meta>

src/epub/text/chapter-19.xhtml

@@ -63,7 +63,7 @@
 				<p>The night telegraph-operator at the railroad station was the most melodramatic figure in town: awake at three in the morning, alone in a room hectic with clatter of the telegraph key. All night he “talked” to operators twenty, fifty, a hundred miles away. It was always to be expected that he would be held up by robbers. He never was, but round him was a suggestion of masked faces at the window, revolvers, cords binding him to a chair, his struggle to crawl to the key before he fainted.</p>
 				<p>During blizzards everything about the railroad was melodramatic. There were days when the town was completely shut off, when they had no mail, no express, no fresh meat, no newspapers. At last the rotary snowplow came through, bucking the drifts, sending up a geyser, and the way to the Outside was open again. The brakemen, in mufflers and fur caps, running along the tops of ice-coated freight-cars; the engineers scratching frost from the cab windows and looking out, inscrutable, self-contained, pilots of the prairie sea⁠—they were heroism, they were to Carol the daring of the quest in a world of groceries and sermons.</p>
 				<p>To the small boys the railroad was a familiar playground. They climbed the iron ladders on the sides of the boxcars; built fires behind piles of old ties; waved to favorite brakemen. But to Carol it was magic.</p>
-				<p>She was motoring with Kennicott, the car lumping through darkness, the lights showing mud-puddles and ragged weeds by the road. A train coming! A rapid <i>chuck-a-chuck, chuck-a-chuck, chuck-a-chuck</i>. It was hurling past⁠—the Pacific Flyer, an arrow of golden flame. Light from the firebox splashed the under side of the trailing smoke. Instantly the vision was gone; Carol was back in the long darkness; and Kennicott was giving his version of that fire and wonder: “<abbr>No.</abbr> 19. Must be ’bout ten minutes late.”</p>
+				<p>She was motoring with Kennicott, the car lumping through darkness, the lights showing mud-puddles and ragged weeds by the road. A train coming! A rapid <i>chuck‑a‑chuck, chuck‑a‑chuck, chuck‑a‑chuck</i>. It was hurling past⁠—the Pacific Flyer, an arrow of golden flame. Light from the firebox splashed the under side of the trailing smoke. Instantly the vision was gone; Carol was back in the long darkness; and Kennicott was giving his version of that fire and wonder: “<abbr>No.</abbr> 19. Must be ’bout ten minutes late.”</p>
 				<p>In town, she listened from bed to the express whistling in the cut a mile north. <i>Uuuuuuu!</i>⁠—faint, nervous, distrait, horn of the free night riders journeying to the tall towns where were laughter and banners and the sound of bells⁠—<i>Uuuuu! Uuuuu!</i>⁠—the world going by⁠—<i>Uuuuuuu!</i>⁠—fainter, more wistful, gone.</p>
 				<p>Down here there were no trains. The stillness was very great. The prairie encircled the lake, lay round her, raw, dusty, thick. Only the train could cut it. Some day she would take a train; and that would be a great taking.</p>
 			</section>

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 				<p>The weariness of dish-washing had increased her desire to go. She pictured herself looking at Emerson’s manse, bathing in a surf of jade and ivory, wearing a <i xml:lang="fr">trottoir</i> and a summer fur, meeting an aristocratic Stranger. In the spring Kennicott had pathetically volunteered, “S’pose you’d like to get in a good long tour this summer, but with Gould and Mac away and so many patients depending on me, don’t see how I can make it. By golly, I feel like a tightwad though, not taking you.” Through all this restless July after she had tasted Bresnahan’s disturbing flavor of travel and gaiety, she wanted to go, but she said nothing. They spoke of and postponed a trip to the Twin Cities. When she suggested, as though it were a tremendous joke, “I think baby and I might up and leave you, and run off to Cape Cod by ourselves!” his only reaction was “Golly, don’t know but what you may almost have to do that, if we don’t get in a trip next year.”</p>
 				<p>Toward the end of July he proposed, “Say, the Beavers are holding a convention in Joralemon, street fair and everything. We might go down tomorrow. And I’d like to see <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Calibree about some business. Put in the whole day. Might help some to make up for our trip. Fine fellow, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Calibree.”</p>
 				<p>Joralemon was a prairie town of the size of Gopher Prairie.</p>
-				<p>Their motor was out of order, and there was no passenger-train at an early hour. They went down by freight-train, after the weighty and conversational business of leaving Hugh with Aunt Bessie. Carol was exultant over this irregular jaunting. It was the first unusual thing, except the glance of Bresnahan, that had happened since the weaning of Hugh. They rode in the caboose, the small red cupola-topped car jerked along at the end of the train. It was a roving shanty, the cabin of a land schooner, with black oilcloth seats along the side, and for desk, a pine board to be let down on hinges. Kennicott played seven-up with the conductor and two brakemen. Carol liked the blue silk kerchiefs about the brakemen’s throats; she liked their welcome to her, and their air of friendly independence. Since there were no sweating passengers crammed in beside her, she reveled in the train’s slowness. She was part of these lakes and tawny wheat-fields. She liked the smell of hot earth and clean grease; and the leisurely <i>chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug</i> of the trucks was a song of contentment in the sun.</p>
+				<p>Their motor was out of order, and there was no passenger-train at an early hour. They went down by freight-train, after the weighty and conversational business of leaving Hugh with Aunt Bessie. Carol was exultant over this irregular jaunting. It was the first unusual thing, except the glance of Bresnahan, that had happened since the weaning of Hugh. They rode in the caboose, the small red cupola-topped car jerked along at the end of the train. It was a roving shanty, the cabin of a land schooner, with black oilcloth seats along the side, and for desk, a pine board to be let down on hinges. Kennicott played seven-up with the conductor and two brakemen. Carol liked the blue silk kerchiefs about the brakemen’s throats; she liked their welcome to her, and their air of friendly independence. Since there were no sweating passengers crammed in beside her, she reveled in the train’s slowness. She was part of these lakes and tawny wheat-fields. She liked the smell of hot earth and clean grease; and the leisurely <i>chug‑a‑chug, chug‑a‑chug</i> of the trucks was a song of contentment in the sun.</p>
 				<p>She pretended that she was going to the Rockies. When they reached Joralemon she was radiant with holiday-making.</p>
 				<p>Her eagerness began to lessen the moment they stopped at a red frame station exactly like the one they had just left at Gopher Prairie, and Kennicott yawned, “Right on time. Just in time for dinner at the Calibrees’. I phoned the doctor from <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">G.P.</abbr> that we’d be here. ‘We’ll catch the freight that gets in before twelve,’ I told him. He said he’d meet us at the depot and take us right up to the house for dinner. Calibree is a good man, and you’ll find his wife is a mighty brainy little woman, bright as a dollar. By golly, there he is.”</p>
 				<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Calibree was a squat, clean-shaven, conscientious-looking man of forty. He was curiously like his own brown-painted motor car, with eyeglasses for windshield. “Want you to meet my wife, doctor⁠—Carrie, make you ’quainted with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Calibree,” said Kennicott. Calibree bowed quietly and shook her hand, but before he had finished shaking it he was concentrating upon Kennicott with, “Nice to see you, doctor. Say, don’t let me forget to ask you about what you did in that exopthalmic goiter case⁠—that Bohemian woman at Wahkeenyan.”</p>

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@@ -148,7 +148,7 @@
 			</section>
 			<section id="chapter-33-6" epub:type="z3998:subchapter">
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
-				<p>Dusk on a snowy December afternoon. The sleeper which would connect at Kansas City with the California train rolled out of <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul with a <i>chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick</i> as it crossed the other tracks. It bumped through the factory belt, gained speed. Carol could see nothing but gray fields, which had closed in on her all the way from Gopher Prairie. Ahead was darkness.</p>
+				<p>Dusk on a snowy December afternoon. The sleeper which would connect at Kansas City with the California train rolled out of <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul with a <i>chick‑a‑chick, chick‑a‑chick, chick‑a‑chick</i> as it crossed the other tracks. It bumped through the factory belt, gained speed. Carol could see nothing but gray fields, which had closed in on her all the way from Gopher Prairie. Ahead was darkness.</p>
 				<p>“For an hour, in Minneapolis, I must have been near Erik. He’s still there, somewhere. He’ll be gone when I come back. I’ll never know where he has gone.”</p>
 				<p>As Kennicott switched on the seat-light she turned drearily to the illustrations in a motion-picture magazine.</p>
 			</section>