Mulcahy takes a thoughtful pause.

"That is true," he muses. "I suppose I just wish I could muster up any more feeling than the usual that I carry with me every day. Either I've tired myself out of it, or I've gotten stuck, or both."

Like getting used to living with something crammed halfway down your throat. He doesn't like either option, but there isn't much he can do, is there? Not if an entire holiday and procession couldn't shake it loose out of him.