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diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-1-1.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-1-1.xhtml
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-1-10.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-1-10.xhtml
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 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-1-10" epub:type="chapter">
 			<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h3>
-			<p>Wunsch and old Fritz and Spanish Johnny celebrated Christmas together, so riotously that Wunsch was unable to give Thea her lesson the next day. In the middle of the vacation week Thea went to the Kohlers’ through a soft, beautiful snowstorm. The air was a tender blue-gray, like the color on the doves that flew in and out of the white dove-house on the post in the Kohlers’ garden. The sand hills looked dim and sleepy. The tamarisk hedge was full of snow, like a foam of blossoms drifted over it. When Thea opened the gate, old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kohler was just coming in from the chicken yard, with five fresh eggs in her apron and a pair of old top-boots on her feet. She called Thea to come and look at a bantam egg, which she held up proudly. Her bantam hens were remiss in zeal, and she was always delighted when they accomplished anything. She took Thea into the sitting-room, very warm and smelling of food, and brought her a plateful of little Christmas cakes, made according to old and hallowed formulae, and put them before her while she warmed her feet. Then she went to the door of the kitchen stairs and called: “Herr Wunsch, Herr Wunsch!”</p>
-			<p>Wunsch came down wearing an old wadded jacket, with a velvet collar. The brown silk was so worn that the wadding stuck out almost everywhere. He avoided Thea’s eyes when he came in, nodded without speaking, and pointed directly to the piano stool. He was not so insistent upon the scales as usual, and throughout the little sonata of Mozart’s she was studying, he remained languid and absentminded. His eyes looked very heavy, and he kept wiping them with one of the new silk handkerchiefs <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kohler had given him for Christmas. When the lesson was over he did not seem inclined to talk. Thea, loitering on the stool, reached for a tattered book she had taken off the music-rest when she sat down. It was a very old Leipzig edition of the piano score of Gluck’s <i epub:type="se:name.music.opera">Orpheus</i>. She turned over the pages curiously.</p>
+			<p>Wunsch and old Fritz and Spanish Johnny celebrated Christmas together, so riotously that Wunsch was unable to give Thea her lesson the next day. In the middle of the vacation week Thea went to the Kohlers’ through a soft, beautiful snowstorm. The air was a tender blue-gray, like the color on the doves that flew in and out of the white dove-house on the post in the Kohlers’ garden. The sand hills looked dim and sleepy. The tamarisk hedge was full of snow, like a foam of blossoms drifted over it. When Thea opened the gate, old <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kohler was just coming in from the chicken yard, with five fresh eggs in her apron and a pair of old top-boots on her feet. She called Thea to come and look at a bantam egg, which she held up proudly. Her bantam hens were remiss in zeal, and she was always delighted when they accomplished anything. She took Thea into the sitting-room, very warm and smelling of food, and brought her a plateful of little Christmas cakes, made according to old and hallowed formulae, and put them before her while she warmed her feet. Then she went to the door of the kitchen stairs and called: “Herr Wunsch, Herr Wunsch!”</p>
+			<p>Wunsch came down wearing an old wadded jacket, with a velvet collar. The brown silk was so worn that the wadding stuck out almost everywhere. He avoided Thea’s eyes when he came in, nodded without speaking, and pointed directly to the piano stool. He was not so insistent upon the scales as usual, and throughout the little sonata of Mozart’s she was studying, he remained languid and absentminded. His eyes looked very heavy, and he kept wiping them with one of the new silk handkerchiefs <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kohler had given him for Christmas. When the lesson was over he did not seem inclined to talk. Thea, loitering on the stool, reached for a tattered book she had taken off the music-rest when she sat down. It was a very old Leipzig edition of the piano score of Gluck’s <i epub:type="se:name.music.opera">Orpheus</i>. She turned over the pages curiously.</p>
 			<p>“Is it nice?” she asked.</p>
 			<p>“It is the most beautiful opera ever made,” Wunsch declared solemnly. “You know the story, eh? How, when she die, Orpheus went down below for his wife?”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, yes, I know. I didn’t know there was an opera about it, though. Do people sing this now?”</p>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“Was she the greatest singer you ever heard?”</p>
 			<p>Wunsch nodded gravely. “Quite so. She was the most⁠—” he hunted for an English word, lifted his hand over his head and snapped his fingers noiselessly in the air, enunciating fiercely, “<i xml:lang="de">künst-ler-isch</i>!” The word seemed to glitter in his uplifted hand, his voice was so full of emotion.</p>
 			<p>Wunsch rose from the stool and began to button his wadded jacket, preparing to return to his half-heated room in the loft. Thea regretfully put on her cloak and hood and set out for home.</p>
-			<p>When Wunsch looked for his score late that afternoon, he found that Thea had not forgotten to take it with her. He smiled his loose, sarcastic smile, and thoughtfully rubbed his stubbly chin with his red fingers. When Fritz came home in the early blue twilight the snow was flying faster, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kohler was cooking <i xml:lang="de">Hasenpfeffer</i> in the kitchen, and the professor was seated at the piano, playing the Gluck, which he knew by heart. Old Fritz took off his shoes quietly behind the stove and lay down on the lounge before his masterpiece, where the firelight was playing over the walls of Moscow. He listened, while the room grew darker and the windows duller. Wunsch always came back to the same thing:⁠—</p>
+			<p>When Wunsch looked for his score late that afternoon, he found that Thea had not forgotten to take it with her. He smiled his loose, sarcastic smile, and thoughtfully rubbed his stubbly chin with his red fingers. When Fritz came home in the early blue twilight the snow was flying faster, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kohler was cooking <i xml:lang="de">Hasenpfeffer</i> in the kitchen, and the professor was seated at the piano, playing the Gluck, which he knew by heart. Old Fritz took off his shoes quietly behind the stove and lay down on the lounge before his masterpiece, where the firelight was playing over the walls of Moscow. He listened, while the room grew darker and the windows duller. Wunsch always came back to the same thing:⁠—</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song" xml:lang="de">
 				<p>
 					<span>Ach, ich habe sie verloren,</span>

diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-1-11.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-1-11.xhtml
@@ -10,8 +10,8 @@
 			<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h3>
 			<p>One Saturday, late in June, Thea arrived early for her lesson. As she perched herself upon the piano stool⁠—a wobbly, old-fashioned thing that worked on a creaky screw⁠—she gave Wunsch a side glance, smiling. “You must not be cross to me today. This is my birthday.”</p>
 			<p>“So?” he pointed to the keyboard.</p>
-			<p>After the lesson they went out to join <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kohler, who had asked Thea to come early, so that she could stay and smell the linden bloom. It was one of those still days of intense light, when every particle of mica in the soil flashed like a little mirror, and the glare from the plain below seemed more intense than the rays from above. The sand ridges ran glittering gold out to where the mirage licked them up, shining and steaming like a lake in the tropics. The sky looked like blue lava, forever incapable of clouds⁠—a turquoise bowl that was the lid of the desert. And yet within <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kohler’s green patch the water dripped, the beds had all been hosed, and the air was fresh with rapidly evaporating moisture.</p>
-			<p>The two symmetrical linden trees were the proudest things in the garden. Their sweetness embalmed all the air. At every turn of the paths⁠—whether one went to see the hollyhocks or the bleeding heart, or to look at the purple morning-glories that ran over the bean-poles⁠—wherever one went, the sweetness of the lindens struck one afresh and one always came back to them. Under the round leaves, where the waxen yellow blossoms hung, bevies of wild bees were buzzing. The tamarisks were still pink, and the flowerbeds were doing their best in honor of the linden festival. The white dove-house was shining with a fresh coat of paint, and the pigeons were crooning contentedly, flying down often to drink at the drip from the water tank. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kohler, who was transplanting pansies, came up with her trowel and told Thea it was lucky to have your birthday when the lindens were in bloom, and that she must go and look at the sweet peas. Wunsch accompanied her, and as they walked between the flowerbeds he took Thea’s hand. “<i xml:lang="de">Es flüstern und sprechen die Blumen</i>,”⁠—he muttered. “You know that von Heine? <i xml:lang="de">Im leuchtenden Sommermorgen?</i>” He looked down at Thea and softly pressed her hand.</p>
+			<p>After the lesson they went out to join <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kohler, who had asked Thea to come early, so that she could stay and smell the linden bloom. It was one of those still days of intense light, when every particle of mica in the soil flashed like a little mirror, and the glare from the plain below seemed more intense than the rays from above. The sand ridges ran glittering gold out to where the mirage licked them up, shining and steaming like a lake in the tropics. The sky looked like blue lava, forever incapable of clouds⁠—a turquoise bowl that was the lid of the desert. And yet within <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kohler’s green patch the water dripped, the beds had all been hosed, and the air was fresh with rapidly evaporating moisture.</p>
+			<p>The two symmetrical linden trees were the proudest things in the garden. Their sweetness embalmed all the air. At every turn of the paths⁠—whether one went to see the hollyhocks or the bleeding heart, or to look at the purple morning-glories that ran over the bean-poles⁠—wherever one went, the sweetness of the lindens struck one afresh and one always came back to them. Under the round leaves, where the waxen yellow blossoms hung, bevies of wild bees were buzzing. The tamarisks were still pink, and the flowerbeds were doing their best in honor of the linden festival. The white dove-house was shining with a fresh coat of paint, and the pigeons were crooning contentedly, flying down often to drink at the drip from the water tank. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kohler, who was transplanting pansies, came up with her trowel and told Thea it was lucky to have your birthday when the lindens were in bloom, and that she must go and look at the sweet peas. Wunsch accompanied her, and as they walked between the flowerbeds he took Thea’s hand. “<i xml:lang="de">Es flüstern und sprechen die Blumen</i>,”⁠—he muttered. “You know that von Heine? <i xml:lang="de">Im leuchtenden Sommermorgen?</i>” He looked down at Thea and softly pressed her hand.</p>
 			<p>“No, I don’t know it. What does <i xml:lang="de">flüstern</i> mean?”</p>
 			<p>“<i xml:lang="de">Flüstern?</i>⁠—to whisper. You must begin now to know such things. That is necessary. How many birthdays?”</p>
 			<p>“Thirteen. I’m in my ’teens now. But how can I know words like that? I only know what you say at my lessons. They don’t teach German at school. How can I learn?”</p>
@@ -74,7 +74,7 @@
 			<p>“Because it would be silly. You are just trying to make me say things. It spoils things to ask questions.”</p>
 			<p>Wunsch bowed mockingly; his smile was disagreeable. Suddenly his face grew grave, grew fierce, indeed. He pulled himself up from his clumsy stoop and folded his arms. “But it is necessary to know if you know some things. Some things cannot be taught. If you not know in the beginning, you not know in the end. For a singer there must be something in the inside from the beginning. I shall not be long in this place, may‑be, and I like to know. Yes”⁠—he ground his heel in the gravel⁠—“yes, when you are barely six, you must know that already. That is the beginning of all things; <i xml:lang="de">der Geist, die Phantasie</i>. It must be in the baby, when it makes its first cry, like <i xml:lang="de">der Rhythmus</i>, or it is not to be. You have some voice already, and if in the beginning, when you are with things-to-play, you know that what you will not tell me, then you can learn to sing, may‑be.”</p>
 			<p>Wunsch began to pace the arbor, rubbing his hands together. The dark flush of his face had spread up under the iron-gray bristles on his head. He was talking to himself, not to Thea. Insidious power of the linden bloom! “Oh, much you can learn! <i xml:lang="de">Aber nicht die Americanischen Fräulein.</i> They have nothing inside them,” striking his chest with both fists. “They are like the ones in the <i xml:lang="de">Märchen</i>, a grinning face and hollow in the insides. Something they can learn, oh, yes, may‑be! But the secret⁠—what make the rose to red, the sky to blue, the man to love⁠—<i xml:lang="de">in der Brust, in der Brust</i> it is, <i xml:lang="de">und ohne dieses giebt es keine Kunst, giebt es keine Kunst</i>!” He threw up his square hand and shook it, all the fingers apart and wagging. Purple and breathless he went out of the arbor and into the house, without saying goodbye. These outbursts frightened Wunsch. They were always harbingers of ill.</p>
-			<p>Thea got her music-book and stole quietly out of the garden. She did not go home, but wandered off into the sand dunes, where the prickly pear was in blossom and the green lizards were racing each other in the glittering light. She was shaken by a passionate excitement. She did not altogether understand what Wunsch was talking about; and yet, in a way she knew. She knew, of course, that there was something about her that was different. But it was more like a friendly spirit than like anything that was a part of herself. She thought everything to it, and it answered her; happiness consisted of that backward and forward movement of herself. The something came and went, she never knew how. Sometimes she hunted for it and could not find it; again, she lifted her eyes from a book, or stepped out of doors, or wakened in the morning, and it was there⁠—under her cheek, it usually seemed to be, or over her breast⁠—a kind of warm sureness. And when it was there, everything was more interesting and beautiful, even people. When this companion was with her, she could get the most wonderful things out of Spanish Johnny, or Wunsch, or <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Archie.</p>
+			<p>Thea got her music-book and stole quietly out of the garden. She did not go home, but wandered off into the sand dunes, where the prickly pear was in blossom and the green lizards were racing each other in the glittering light. She was shaken by a passionate excitement. She did not altogether understand what Wunsch was talking about; and yet, in a way she knew. She knew, of course, that there was something about her that was different. But it was more like a friendly spirit than like anything that was a part of herself. She thought everything to it, and it answered her; happiness consisted of that backward and forward movement of herself. The something came and went, she never knew how. Sometimes she hunted for it and could not find it; again, she lifted her eyes from a book, or stepped out of doors, or wakened in the morning, and it was there⁠—under her cheek, it usually seemed to be, or over her breast⁠—a kind of warm sureness. And when it was there, everything was more interesting and beautiful, even people. When this companion was with her, she could get the most wonderful things out of Spanish Johnny, or Wunsch, or <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Archie.</p>
 			<p>On her thirteenth birthday she wandered for a long while about the sand ridges, picking up crystals and looking into the yellow prickly-pear blossoms with their thousand stamens. She looked at the sand hills until she wished she <em>were</em> a sand hill. And yet she knew that she was going to leave them all behind some day. They would be changing all day long, yellow and purple and lavender, and she would not be there. From that day on, she felt there was a secret between her and Wunsch. Together they had lifted a lid, pulled out a drawer, and looked at something. They hid it away and never spoke of what they had seen; but neither of them forgot it.</p>
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