‘I rose up to open to my beloved, And my hands dropped with myrrh, And my fingers with liquid myrrh, Upon the handles of the bolt.'
Rising from her bed she swiftly clad herself and then went to draw back the bolt, but all the time conscious of the myrrh that dropped on to her hand and fingers even as she did so. Even now she was too much taken up with herself. But she also knew that this myrrh was a luxury that she owed solely to him, and it must have moved her conscience as she thought of how she had nearly refused him. It was, however, to be too late.