text_original: There are birds that pluck the feathers from their own breasts. For hours Rhoda had been silently graving lines upon her face, and deliberately destroying the bloom and freshness that God meant her to keep. But she did not like to be told of her handiwork.
text_transcription: THERE ARE BIRDS THAT PLUCK THE FEATHERS FROM THEIR OWN BREASTS FOR HOURS RHODA HAD BEEN SILENTLY GRAVING LINES UPON HER FACE AND DELIBERATELY DESTROYING THE BLOOM AND FRESHNESS THAT GOD MEANT HER TO KEEP BUT SHE DID NOT LIKE TO BE TOLD OF HER HANDIWORK
phonemes: ðɛɹˌɑːɹ bˈɜːdz ðæt plˈʌk ðə fˈɛðɚz fɹʌm ðɛɹ ˈoʊn bɹˈɛsts. fɔːɹ ˈaʊɚz ɹˈoʊdə hɐdbɪn sˈaɪləntli ɡɹˈeɪvɪŋ lˈaɪnz əpˌɑːn hɜː fˈeɪs, ænd dᵻlˈɪbɚɹətli dᵻstɹˈɔɪɪŋ ðə blˈuːm ænd fɹˈɛʃnəs ðæt ɡˈɑːd mˈɛnt hɜː tə kˈiːp. bˌʌt ʃiː dɪdnˌɑːt lˈaɪk təbi tˈoʊld ʌv hɜː hˈændiwˌɜːk.