Semanticate

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@@ -13,8 +13,8 @@
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.</p>
 			<p>His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the parish and the drunken section⁠—that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.</p>
-			<p>Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak’s appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own⁠—the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Johnson’s; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp⁠—their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak’s grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours’ windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak’s fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.</p>
+			<p>Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak’s appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own⁠—the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Johnson’s; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp⁠—their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak’s grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours’ windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak’s fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.</p>
 			<p>But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain December morning⁠—sunny and exceedingly mild⁠—might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world’s room, Oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not.</p>
 			<p>He had just reached the time of life at which “young” is ceasing to be the prefix of “man” in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.</p>
 			<p>The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring wagon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a wagoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. The wagon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes.</p>

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 			<p>“Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman, made a mistake at his christening, thinking ’twas Abel killed Cain, and called en Cain, meaning Abel all the time. The parson put it right, but ’twas too late, for the name could never be got rid of in the parish. ’Tis very unfortunate for the boy.”</p>
 			<p>“It is rather unfortunate.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes. However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him Cainy. Ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it almost. She was brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who never sent her to church or school, and it shows how the sins of the parents are visited upon the children, mem.”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not belong to your own family.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not belong to your own family.</p>
 			<p>“Very well then, Cainey Ball to be under-shepherd. And you quite understand your duties?⁠—you I mean, Gabriel Oak?”</p>
 			<p>“Quite well, I thank you, Miss Everdene,” said Shepherd Oak from the doorpost. “If I don’t, I’ll inquire.” Gabriel was rather staggered by the remarkable coolness of her manner. Certainly nobody without previous information would have dreamt that Oak and the handsome woman before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. But perhaps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which had advanced her from a cottage to a large house and fields. The case is not unexampled in high places. When, in the writings of the later poets, Jove and his family are found to have moved from their cramped quarters on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it, their words show a proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve.</p>
 			<p>Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of velocity.</p>

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@@ -74,7 +74,7 @@
 			<p>“No, not yet.”</p>
 			<p>“O⁠—how is it? You said you almost had before you left Casterbridge.”</p>
 			<p>“The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden and unexpected.”</p>
-			<p>“Yes⁠—yes⁠—it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I’ll go away now. Will you come and see me tomorrow, at <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Twills’s, in North Street? I don’t like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they think me one.”</p>
+			<p>“Yes⁠—yes⁠—it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I’ll go away now. Will you come and see me tomorrow, at <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Twills’s, in North Street? I don’t like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they think me one.”</p>
 			<p>“Quite, so. I’ll come to you, my dear. Good night.”</p>
 			<p>“Good night, Frank⁠—good night!”</p>
 			<p>And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot moved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was heard inside the wall.</p>

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 			<p>The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blushed guiltily.</p>
 			<p>“Who did you try?” said Liddy curiously.</p>
 			<p>“I shall not tell you.”</p>
-			<p>“Did you notice <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldwood’s doings in church this morning, miss?” Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken.</p>
+			<p>“Did you notice <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Boldwood’s doings in church this morning, miss?” Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken.</p>
 			<p>“No, indeed,” said Bathsheba, with serene indifference.</p>
 			<p>“His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss.”</p>
 			<p>“I know it.”</p>

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@@ -33,11 +33,11 @@
 			<p>“Got a pianner?”</p>
 			<p>“Ay. Seems her old uncle’s things were not good enough for her. She’ve bought all but everything new. There’s heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece.”</p>
 			<p>“Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames.”</p>
-			<p>“And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows at each end,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Clark. “Likewise looking-glasses for the pretty, and lying books for the wicked.”</p>
+			<p>“And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows at each end,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Clark. “Likewise looking-glasses for the pretty, and lying books for the wicked.”</p>
 			<p>A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed⁠—</p>
 			<p>“Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?”</p>
 			<p>“Ay, sure, shepherd,” said the conclave.</p>
-			<p>The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top to bottom with the blow. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Oak appeared in the entry with a steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether an epitome of the world’s health and vigour. Four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind.</p>
+			<p>The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top to bottom with the blow. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Oak appeared in the entry with a steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether an epitome of the world’s health and vigour. Four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind.</p>
 			<p>“Well, Shepherd Oak, and how’s lambing this year, if I mid say it?” inquired Joseph Poorgrass.</p>
 			<p>“Terrible trying,” said Oak. “I’ve been wet through twice a-day, either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven’t tined our eyes tonight.”</p>
 			<p>“A good few twins, too, I hear?”</p>
@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 			<p>“What have you been saying about her?” inquired Oak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting very warm.</p>
 			<p>“These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride and vanity,” said Mark Clark; “but I say, let her have rope enough. Bless her pretty face⁠—shouldn’t I like to do so⁠—upon her cherry lips!” The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known sound with his own.</p>
 			<p>“Mark,” said Gabriel, sternly, “now you mind this! none of that dalliance-talk⁠—that smack-and-coddle style of yours⁠—about Miss Everdene. I don’t allow it. Do you hear?”</p>
-			<p>“With all my heart, as I’ve got no chance,” replied <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Clark, cordially.</p>
+			<p>“With all my heart, as I’ve got no chance,” replied <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Clark, cordially.</p>
 			<p>“I suppose you’ve been speaking against her?” said Oak, turning to Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look.</p>
 			<p>“No, no⁠—not a word I⁠—’tis a real joyful thing that she’s no worse, that’s what I say,” said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror. “Matthew just said⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?” asked Oak.</p>
@@ -89,7 +89,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh no⁠—not at all,” replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused.</p>
 			<p>Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door, and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a quality between friendliness and condescension.</p>
 			<p>“Ah! Oak, I thought you were here,” he said. “I met the mail-cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened without reading the address. I believe it is yours. You must excuse the accident please.”</p>
-			<p>“Oh yes⁠—not a bit of difference, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldwood⁠—not a bit,” said Gabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would not have been welcome to peruse.</p>
+			<p>“Oh yes⁠—not a bit of difference, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Boldwood⁠—not a bit,” said Gabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would not have been welcome to peruse.</p>
 			<p>Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:⁠—</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
 				<p epub:type="z3998:salutation">Dear Friend⁠—</p>
@@ -100,7 +100,7 @@
 					<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Fanny Robin.</p>
 				</footer>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>“Have you read it, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldwood?” said Gabriel; “if not, you had better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin.”</p>
+			<p>“Have you read it, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Boldwood?” said Gabriel; “if not, you had better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin.”</p>
 			<p>Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved.</p>
 			<p>“Fanny⁠—poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yet come, she should remember⁠—and may never come. I see she gives no address.”</p>
 			<p>“What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?” said Gabriel.</p>
@@ -112,7 +112,7 @@
 			<p>“I’ve run to tell ye,” said the junior shepherd, supporting his exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, “that you must come directly. Two more ewes have twinned⁠—that’s what’s the matter, Shepherd Oak.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, that’s it,” said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fanny. “You are a good boy to run and tell me, Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we’ll mark this lot and have done with ’em.”</p>
 			<p>Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it into the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep the initials of her he delighted to muse on⁠—“<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B. E.</abbr>,” which signified to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer Bathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.</p>
-			<p>“Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldwood.” The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing field hard by⁠—their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death’s-door plight of half an hour before.</p>
+			<p>“Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Boldwood.” The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing field hard by⁠—their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death’s-door plight of half an hour before.</p>
 			<p>Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and turned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed⁠—Bathsheba’s.</p>
 			<p>“I was going to ask you, Oak,” he said, with unreal carelessness, “if you know whose writing this is?”</p>
 			<p>Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed face, “Miss Everdene’s.”</p>