She found the cemetery deserted and stood outside its black iron fence for a moment, staring at the graves. The grave of Miss Tutin still was mounded with fresh earth but otherwise—and despite what had happened two days earlier—the cemetery appeared as if no one had entered it for years. The place felt weighted by a kind of sad shabbiness, Vera thought. She heard a voice behind her say, “Hello, Miss Lamb” and turned to find Julia Martin, Lilly’s mother, standing behind her holding a canvas bag of groceries in each hand. Vera had instinctively liked Julia the first time they’d met. She smiled. “Can I help you with your bags?” Julia returned the smile. “That’s very kind, thanks.” She handed Vera one of the bags, which contained, among other food, a loaf of the coarse rationed bread the government called the National Wheatmeal Loaf and a tiny tin of strawberry jam, which had become rare and which Julia had been lucky to obtain. Julia nodded toward the western end of the village and said, “I live just up here.”
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