The hard spadework robs their brain of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they don't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! 
The toil robs their brain of life; it deadens their imagination; they don't care to meet to talk after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! 