text_original: Somehow, there was pleasure in this thought, that we might, or might not, strike that old quarry pit. The blood in us being hot, we had pure joy in charging its white, impalpable solidity, which made way, and at once closed in behind us.
text_transcription: SOMEHOW THERE WAS PLEASURE IN THIS THOUGHT THAT WE MIGHT OR MIGHT NOT STRIKE THAT OLD QUARRY PIT THE BLOOD IN US BEING HOT WE HAD PURE JOY IN CHARGING ITS WIDE IMPALPABLE SOLIDITY WHICH MADE WAY AND AT ONCE CLOSED IN BEHIND US
phonemes: sˈʌmhaʊ, ðɛɹwˌʌz plˈɛʒɚɹ ɪn ðɪs θˈɔːt, ðæt wiː mˈaɪt, ɔːɹ mˌaɪt nˈɑːt, stɹˈaɪk ðæt ˈoʊld kwˈɔːɹi pˈɪt. ðə blˈʌd ɪn ˌʌs bˌiːɪŋ hˈɑːt, wiː hæd pjˈʊɹ dʒˈɔɪ ɪn tʃˈɑːɹdʒɪŋ ɪts wˈaɪt, ɪmpˈælpəbəl səlˈɪdᵻɾi, wˌɪtʃ mˌeɪd wˈeɪ, ænd ɐtwˈʌns klˈoʊzd ɪn bᵻhˈaɪnd ˌʌs.