text_original: Her wit might not account for it, for that had been cruel. And something of the agony of the woman's soul as she lay in torment, facing the wall, thinking of her son under the same roof, of a life misspent and irrevocable, I pictured.
text_transcription: HER WIT MIGHT NOT ACCOUNT FOR IT FOR THAT HAD BEEN CRUEL AND SOMETHING OF THE AGONY OF THE WOMAN'S SOUL AS SHE LAY IN TORMENT FACING THE WALL THINKING OF HER SON UNDER THE SAME ROOF OF A LIFE MISSPENT AND IRREVOCABLE I PICTURED
phonemes: hɜː wˈɪt mˌaɪt nˌɑːt ɐkˈaʊnt fɔːɹ ɪt, fɔːɹ ðæt hɐdbɪn kɹˈuːəl. ænd sˈʌmθɪŋ ʌvðɪ ˈæɡəni ʌvðə wˈʊmənz sˈoʊl æz ʃiː lˈeɪ ɪn tˈɔːɹmɛnt, fˈeɪsɪŋ ðə wˈɔːl, θˈɪŋkɪŋ ʌv hɜː sˈʌn ˌʌndɚ ðə sˈeɪm ɹˈuːf, əvə lˈaɪf mɪsspˈɛnt ænd ɪɹᵻvˈɑːkəbəl, aɪ pˈɪktʃɚd.