Not for the first time Penelope wished that she were truly religious. She believed, of course, and went to church at Christmas and Easter, because without something to believe in, life would be intolerable. But now, seeing the little procession of villagers filing up the gravel path between the ancient leaning gravestones, she thought it would be good to join them with the certainty of finding comfort. But she did not. It had never worked before and it was unlikely to work now. It was not God’s fault; just something to do with her own attitude of mind.
