My father sold me as a prostitute to neighbors and business contacts. He programmed me to ride my bike to the gas station at the corner of Ventura Boulevard and Fallbrook Avenue in Woodland Hills. Mr. Teesdale and Mr. Roberts owned the station. Frank, the auto mechanic and gas station attendant who worked there, traded my father free gas and auto servicing in exchange for having sex with me in the bathroom at the station. That went on for several years. The gas station has since been demolished and in its place stands a large office building, but the memories of what happened to me remain. He also took me to the next door neighbor, Mr. Faciano, to perform sexual favors, always in exchange for twenty dollar bills. My father also sold me for sex to groups of men who met at the welding shop he owned. These men took me by the hand, behind Smitty's Wood Lot, and sexually abused me (I performed oral sex, or they would rape or sodomize me) in exchange for cash paid to my father. My father, and later my brother Rick, who through a series of events ended up owning the family welding business, sold child pornography out of the shop. These pornographic materials were kept behind a corrugated metal wall and sold to interested customers when they came in. (My brother may not be consciously aware of his criminal activities.) Over the years, I was well trained, through trauma and sexual abuse, in line with the technology that was shared with my father so he could condition me for a higher level of future use.
One night at the dinner table my father announced that the actor, Robert Taylor, had been in to visit him again. I never knew why a famous actor like Robert Taylor would want to visit my father at his welding shop, but even though I couldn't yet piece the separate parts of my mind together enough to understand, I was impressed nevertheless. During this time when I was around 8-10 years old, my father told me that Robert Taylor watched a ballet performance where I danced the Swan Lake ballet on toe shoes. I wore a pink sequined leotard with pink sequined straps and the outfit had pink feathers attached to it. I had a pink-feathered headband that made it look like I had pink feathers all around my face, like a swan. Later on I found out that Robert Taylor liked child pornography; my father sold it to him from his welding shop, and he also liked sex with 7-10 year old girls.
This was an important time of deciding just how far I would "go." Dad wanted me to go all the way to the top. He said he was so proud of me and together we'd make his father Ivan, a proud grandfather.
My father had a group of pedophile friends with daughters my age. They traded us sexually and each independently participated in filming us pornographically, sometimes including bestiality. I had many personalities who were trained both in porn and prostitution.
At age seven, I was further trained by older women prostitutes in a back room at the Corbin Bowl, located on Ventura Boulevard in Tarzana, California. I was taught the "tricks of the trade," most of which I already knew from years of sexual abuse. The prostitution and pornography I was a part of was a highly organized activity.
There were times a personality within me was programmed and used to entice and kidnap other children off the street and into a big black car. The kidnapped children were initially kept in cages in back rooms and then used in pornography and usually killed, often in snuff films. We were all shocked with cattle prods or other electrical devices for lots of different offenses. Pornography was filmed at the
Corbin Bowl, with other children, women, men, and animals. Perhaps this is where many of the missing children, whose faces we see so often on postal cards or billboards are disappearing to and why they are never found. At this young age, I was also locked in a small, darkened room with a bed and sold as a prostitute to large numbers of men in a day. The people in charge left ropes, whips, and sex toys for use by the men who paid for sex with me.
One of my father's pedophile friends and partners in the child porn and prostitution business was Dean Hartshorn. Although Dean was nearly 20 years younger than my father, their shared sexual perversions kept them close friends. Dean and his family lived in the Encino Hills area and he operated a pesticide business. Dean had a beautiful daughter, named Donna, who had the blondest hair and bluest eyes I'd ever seen. She was traded to my father for sex and I was traded to Dean and some of his friends and relatives. The Hartshorn family joined my family on vacation several times a year and Donna and I were filmed as we performed sexual acts with numerous different people.
Over the years I was taken to many different locations and filmed and/or programmed. Some of these were: Turlock Lake, Mount Shasta, Clear Lake, Lake Arrowhead, Bass Lake, Lake Cachuma, Lake Isabella, Millerton Lake, Pine Flats, Lake Elsinore, Big Bear Lake, La Jolla, Mission Bay, Salton Sea, Coronado, San Juan Capistrano, the Colorado River, Lake Mead, Lake Mohave, Lake Havasu, Death Valley, Las Vegas, and other places we went for so-called "waterskiing vacations."
Cliff Spear was also a pedophile friend of my fathers. His daughter Debbie (also known as DeeDee) was my age and was in my brownie troop and class at school. I was traded to Cliff by my father, and was molested by him every time I spent the night at Debbie's house. In the middle of the night, Debbie and I, and sometimes her younger sister Jana, were awakened and taken to Cliff's carpeting business to be filmed pornographically.
Guy Cooper was a man who filmed me in porn at his home in Hidden Hills, with his younger daughter, Buffy. In this porn I was also forced to have sex with animals, some of them large farm animals. You can imagine how shameful and degrading these experiences are to a child.
To my knowledge, my father's affiliation was not limited to any single group, nor did he subscribe to membership in any group for any length of time. Instead, his membership was temporary, as he moved from one group to another, suiting my programmer's needs for the time. The groups I am aware of that he attended for different periods of time were the Lions Club, Ku Klux Klan, and Neo-Nazi groups. Publicly and consciously my father adamantly professed that he was not prejudiced against any race or religion and taught me not to be racially prejudiced. In private, secret gatherings with like-minded men, he witnessed and participated in ceremonies where they humiliated, tortured, dismembered and killed Black people and Jewish people. I know, because as a child I was present at some of those "meetings."
I was taken often to rituals that were performed late at night. One incident that stands out in my mind was a night near my 10th birthday when a group of men sacrificed a Black man, saying it was done in my "honor," to give me power. As I watched in sheer panic, devastation, and horror, they tortured and then threw this man alive into the bonfire. To withstand this extremely traumatic event, I split off another personality to deal with it. On another occasion, as a Fourth of July event, a small child was delivered by a black sedan to my father at the gully at the end of our street. I watched in horror as my father strapped a homemade bomb he had made to this little boy's body and told me he was so powerful he could make the child live or die. The next thing I knew the bomb went off and the child was nowhere to be found. The tactics used to keep me dissociated and split were endless.
I remembered my father and our Shriner neighbor, Jack Rice, taking me to a meeting where a group of men, all wearing red Shriner hats, sat at tables. My father was given a Shriner hat and acted like he felt uncomfortable wearing it. I was patriotically wearing a navy blue v-neck dress with a large white sailor collar. Mr. Rice sat on one side of me and my father on the other. They ate dinner but I just sat at my place in a daze and didn't eat anything. One of the Shriner's stood at his table and clinking his glass to get everyone's attention, he announced, "We have a little member here tonight to entertain and delight you. Please welcome her with a round of applause."
I walked up onto the stage and began dancing to The National Anthem. "Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light," the words played as I danced and slowly began taking off first my dress, then my shoes, pantaloons, nylons, bra, and panties until I stood dressed only in a tiny tasseled white satin g-string. Why I didn't strip all the way I don't know. All the men cheered and after I was through Mr. Rice stood at the bottom of the stage stairs to take me backstage to dress. He held out his arm and I took it. I felt like I was blind and couldn't see to find my way so he led me as he recited the program he had continually taught me to memorize, "There was a man who had no eyes and he went out to view the skies, he saw a tree with apples on it, he picked no apples off but left no apples on it." It was a «blind» program and I was told I couldn't see while I was there. Mr. Rice led me to a back room. It wasn't like a dressing room, just a side room. He gave me some kind of red robe to wear, "They'll bring your clothes on into us in awhile, we'll just wait." Other nights at different Shriner places, there were satanic rituals where I was raped on an altar in front of the group of robed men. There were many other Shriner meetings; lots of them disguised "under the big top," at Shriner circuses. Circuses were a place of trauma over the years and I usually ended up getting hurt.
My neighbor Peggy and I performed Alice in Wonderland in what seemingly appeared to be an innocent backyard neighborhood play for these elderly neighbors, Mr. & Mrs. Rice. They sat on their patio, having cocktails like they always did at happy hour and watched while we performed. In the middle of the play, Mr. Rice wiggled his finger and calling me over to him, he said, "Come here, Susie, I want to tell you a secret." I stood by this elderly man's chair on the patio and he motioned for me to bend over so he could whisper a secret to me. His pungent alcohol breath permeated the air as he said, "I have a little surprise that will help you act out the play better," and he put a small role of lifesavers into my hand and told me, "open your mouth for the next surprise." Naively and with complete trust, I opened my mouth as he said, "Close your eyes for the hidden surprise, and remember the real surprise is in your hand." Then he reminded me, "open your mouth for the hidden surprise."
In childlike innocence, I kept my eyes closed, waiting in anticipation for the surprise. Mr. Rice placed something in my mouth that was round as he said, "This is a heavenly wafer, my dear, a hidden heavenly wafer, in which you will appear." I didn't know what he meant but I began feeling very weak and funny inside, just like Alice in Wonderland did. Then he said, "Go finish your play now and act your part. Your part is about to start, so don't be late for a very important date or you will end up in trouble over and over and over again. Always obey the white rabbit, follow him inside for he has the time of day in which you will play. So go now and play your play. Which is it, play? The play or the play?"
In a confused stupor, I walked back over to my friend Peggy and entered the play again, saying my part, which was, "I'm late, I'm late for a very important date."
Mr. Rice was my date at other evening affairs with the Shriners, some where I was even the "altar girl" but it wasn't like a sacred ceremony at the Catholic Church, instead, I was taken to satanic rituals. They were really bad rituals where I was raped on an altar in front of lots of Shriners late at night, in dark outside places and they hurt and tortured me in the name of what they called, "the holy one."
Peggy and I also performed The Parent Trap for the Rice's. This was a way of cementing and concretizing the Susan and Sharon twin sister programming. I played Sharon in the backyard play and Peggy played Susan. We even cut my dress just like in the movie.
As I remembered what had actually happened, in full detail, instead of merely recalling the small slice of conscious reality of this past event, I could smell the Rice's home, Mr. Rice's alcohol breath, and his daughter Joanie's perfume, which was strong and also had an alcohol base to it. Hidden behind all the fairy tales and seemingly good things were painful memories of the places I was taken to for programming.
I began puberty around this time and my father snuck into my room like he always did at night. He explained to me while I was in a haze of sleep, that I was of the superior race, that I was of Aryan descent and that he was proud of my blond hair, green eyes, and fair skin. At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about and ignored it, pretending I didn't hear him.
I started menstruating at ten. This heralded abuse in rituals which involved being raped and impregnated, sometimes twice a year. When the fetuses were two to three months old, they were aborted at rituals and ingested by members of the group in order to fulfill the beliefs of the group; that it made those participating "more powerful." These were devastating, deeply traumatizing, and soulfully painful experiences, the memory of which was repressed along with all the other traumas. These traumatic events served as mind control reinforcement, to insure amnesia of my use in pornography, prostitution, and later projects I was to serve in.
By the end of the 5" grade, when I was almost eleven, I had gone through puberty, was fully developed and had already had my menstrual cycle for a year. Despite the abuse, I was programmed to be an average student, with many «school» personalities who helped me act like a "normal kid." Often I displayed behavior problems in school, as I acted out, due to what was secretly going on at home and at other dark, hidden places. My teachers merely passed off my joking and constant disruption as typical mischievous behavior and I won an award for class clown. I also had personalities who were totally amnesiac of any of my abuse who were able to function normally at school. As I entered junior high school, I did the things that normal kids do; I was a cheerleader, performed in the chorus, sang solos at school performances, won awards for the most beautiful smile and for being the class clown, and obtained other awards for service. And my mother had the cleanest house in the neighborhood.
To all outward appearances, all of these families I've mentioned, seemed to be normal, upstanding citizens of the community. NO one would have ever suspected that, in secret, all of this abuse was occurring. The mothers kept clean children and clean houses, smiled and were polite and caring in public, and the fathers acted charming and were considered responsible businessmen in the community. What went on behind closed doors-that no one wanted to believe or hear about, not even my school principal-was the spiritual, physical, and emotional devastation of many, many children.
In my desperation to obtain help or understanding, I started very early trying to figure out what was wrong. I kept bumping into mind control programming that re-routed my thoughts, and exasperated with my statements and questions, my mother constantly «re-minded» me from her own programming, "You just think too much!"
When I turned eleven, my father announced he was flying me to his small hometown of Correctionville, Iowa, to meet my grandparents. I was surprised by this invitation, as family problems had estranged my father from his parents for years …in fact, from even before my birth. My father never had anything pleasant to say about his parents. But I was excited to fly on an airplane (which I mistakenly thought was my first time) and curious about meeting my grandparents for the first time. The telltale fact that my father hated them, and had stolen their car and run away from home at fifteen never entered my thought processes. Nor was I able to wonder why my mother and brothers were not invited to go along. Unfortunately, due to the mind control I was under, I did not have the ability to question or to wonder about anything along certain lines. I merely went along with what I was told to do.
I was impregnated several months before we were to go to Iowa. My mother took me shopping to a clothes store called Stardusters. It was like Hollywood there. The saleslady picked out dresses and took me into the dressing room and, in spite of my embarrassment, dressed me in outfits complete with accessories. My mother bought me several expensive outfits, complete with hats, belts, purses and fancy, frilly undergarments, although she wore old, ragged clothes and at home the word was that we were broke.
On the way home from our shopping spree, my mother took note of my maternally pooching tummy, and over the next few months, yelled at me constantly saying, "Hold in your stomach." Neither of us consciously knew that I was pregnant and I tried my best to hold in my tummy. During my teen years, I was usually anorexic, very thin, and didn't eat much, so the fact that I was pregnant for a month or two was not easy to detect, especially to those who wouldn't have ever expected it.
My paternal grandfather, Ivan Charles Eckhart, was a Jersey Ice Cream manufacturer, a multimillionaire and mayor of the town of Correctionville, Iowa, where he lived with my grandmother. Later on he won a landslide election to become the supervisor of the Third District and for years was involved in both local and state politics.
My paternal grandmother, Leah Eckhart, was a small but angry-tempered woman. Now I understand why. Instead of sleeping upstairs in the plush bedroom with my grandfather, she slept in the bare cement floored basement on a small cot. At the time I could not question or wonder about that either. My grandparents are now both deceased, left with never having the opportunity of understanding or healing the intergenerational abuse that created this problem to begin with.
I had many traumatic experiences on my visits to Iowa. I suppose, back then, my father's return visit to his parents appeared just to be a family reunion, but nothing could have been further from the truth.
While in Iowa, I had the first of several forced abortions, which was performed in a torturous fashion by a local doctor. Although I was actually raped and made pregnant at a ritual, I was humiliated and shamed for becoming pregnant. As in all trauma-based mind control, everything was a double-bind. I was blamed and shamed for everything that happened, none of which I ever had any control over. My baby, which was not yet old enough to be born alive, was nevertheless a perfectly formed fetus. My grandparents and my father performed a ritual behind their house in which they convinced me that I had killed my own baby (it was obviously born dead), and they ate it and forced me to participate. Since I was suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder, this traumatic experience, along with many others, was stored neatly away from my conscious mind, hidden in alternate personalities, and sealed away from my conscious awareness by programming that covered and hid the truth of my life.
One night after returning to my grandfather's house, somehow the experiences that terrified me were not so neatly hidden from my consciousness and in an act of panic and desperation, I frantically tried to phone my mother to ask her to help me. Overhearing me, my grandfather grabbed the phone out of my hand and proceeded to rip the phone out of the wall and in retaliation, tied me to the post of his iron bed frame for two days, while they went out of town. My grandfather was very brutal. But my father was very proud of the human technology I possessed. He was pleased to be able to show his father all of my «trained» abilities.
During the remainder of the time we were in Iowa, I was forced to entertain my grandfather's business and political friends. I danced naked on the table at meetings and performed sexual favors for many of my grandfather's associates. To demonstrate my abilities, my father prompted the men to use their cigars or cigarettes to burn my vaginal area as I kneeled before them. My father wanted to demonstrate that I would smile and show no signs of the pain due to mind control. After these meetings, I was connected to a higher level of politicians.
From then on, when my father took me on our yearly trips to Iowa, I was slowly connected to more and more political figures. In the meantime, he used me wherever he could to get cash, or more often, courtesies for favors. We started having enough money to go out to dinner, which was a treat we could not previously afford. It's likely that some of the money came from my father's payoffs from my use in porn and prostitution.
There were child and adolescent training centers called "farms," that I believe were located in Montreal, a city in the French Canadian Province of Quebec. I was taken to one for "grace training," and to step up the etiquette and formal training I would need to be used a notch higher. Other teenage girls were also there in training. It felt like a prison. I think I was there for a week — it was difficult to determine the actual span of time. It had to be winter because it was chilly and windy outside, and the trees were barren and there were leaves on the ground. This place was located out in the countryside. It wasn't on the way to anything so if anyone came near they could easily be identified as intruders. We were seen to public eyes as unwed mothers. We even had to stuff a pillow in our pants and go into town every once in awhile. I slept with other girls in a white farm building that had cement floors and cots with mattresses that lined the room. We all compliantly took the medicine they gave us every morning. The people that worked at "the farm" changed daily, men and women both, but never the same ones two days in a row. We ate dinner and we all got into bed, then someone told us a story. They treated us like a herd of cows and we all totally obeyed instructions; there was no fuss and no fight, just total obedience.
I was taught how to walk elegantly with a book on my head and had to be able to squat down without dropping the book, and then stand up again. I was assigned to work with language input tapes in a small sound room equipped with headphones. I was given a mirror to look into to practice making certain sounds. All the instructions were given to me auditorily, even down to, "hold your mouth like you are saying A or O," and then I heard the sound I was to mimic. Once I learned the physical impressions of how to make the sounds they could easily attach language skills. I don't know how it all works, but later they had me lay down with headphones on while they played sounds so fast that I couldn't hear the words. Later they said that it had "worked," and that I had received French language enhancement. The lady explained that in most foreign countries it was proper to ask for a translator, but it was to be common background for the upper class to at least speak fluent French and Italian, and preferably German and Russian also. Since I was going to be used with foreign people and in foreign countries, I had to know their languages and customs.
I was also shown movies from a film projector onto a screen. I saw films on different foreign countries in order to obtain the necessary culture. They instructed me, "Put this in your China file," and then I would watch a movie intently recording all of it, the places, the names, dates, historical facts, everything. Then later on when Henry and I arrived in these foreign lands, I was familiar with their cultural background so I wouldn't make a faux pas.
All we did at the training farm was eat lightly, sleep and learn; input was ingested in large quantities for later use. Henry didn't visit me there. He said he might stop in to check on me, but he never did. Beforehand, he tied my Wizard of Oz programming to this event when he told me to believe, "I left my bed in Kansas, and went on the wings of a tornado to the farm." When I came back "to Kansas" I woke up in my own bed in California and was very, very sick. My mom took care of me and told me that I had the flu. I had a high fever and was a little delirious. I couldn't even manage to keep my eyes focused. I felt exhausted and so sick that I couldn't sleep, so I lay in my bed and prayed to die.
During summer vacation one year, Mr. Rice, our Shriner neighbor, re-introduced me to his daughter, Joanie Rice, who was visiting for the summer from her home in White Plains, New York. She was much older than I and was very attractive. She wore lots of makeup and jewelry, and wore a heavy perfume called Royal Secret. During that time, my maternal grandmother who lived with us had to be put in a rest home and my mother visited her every day, so Joanie, stayed to babysit me and played with me by our pool in my mother's absence. It all looked like a nice arrangement from the outside, but her presence was planned to further my programming. She taught me to be "dignified." I heard that word over and over and over. She taught me social etiquette-to act polished, to have good manners, and she was there to voice-program me when the men came with the equipment. At these times, she and a group of men held me down on the couch, drugged me, placed a band around my head, which they retrieved from a black briefcase full of special equipment including bright lights and machines which delivered different sounds and instructions. I was given names of politicians and programmed with instructions that, when I saw them on TV or heard them on radio, I was to become completely amnestic of who and what I was involved in. She also programmed me from lists of numbers and codes. Other years, I was flown to her glamorous apartment in New York. She escorted me to Washington, DC at first, so I wouldn't feel afraid or alone and could work at my maximum capacity. My mother and I also began to wear Royal Secret perfume, like Joanie.
My family bought property in Twenty-nine Palms, California and built a small cabin on the desert land. One weekend my father explained that my mom needed a little time to herself since her mother had just passed away. I, too, was sad that my grandmother had died. My controllers told me she went to the streets of hell as evidenced by the blood coming out of her face. She died of high blood pressure, which caused the bleeding. But they said she went to hell and I hoped she would come back alive so we could re-route her. But after awhile that didn't scare me because I knew my «Gram» didn't go to hell. Although in a programmed state, my grandmother participated at times in my abuse, I knew she was really a nice quiet, gentle woman, who like my mother, never would have intentionally hurt anyone.
So, my father took my brothers and I to our Twenty-nine Palms cabin and one day they involved me in a sex ritual. They got me drunk, then stripped and tied me by my wrists and ankles face up in the sand in the intense desert sun. They seemed so excited as they did this to me. My father painted a satanic pentagram and green swastikas on my body. Later on, as it began to get dark he poured gas in a wide circle around me and once it was really dark he lit a match which started a fire burning all around me. I thought they were going to cook me. They put a half-dead, sandy, horned toad in my mouth and told me to hold it there. My brother Rick was running all around in an excited frenzy and my brother Jim was there also. At this ritual, in addition to traumatizing me, they were being taught how to be in charge. I was raped by all of them and their friends.
During this time, I attended Hale Junior High School, which was located directly across the street from our church, the First Presbyterian Church of Woodland Hills. It was at Hale, in the 7th grade (we were thirteen), that I met Craig Ford (Robert Craig Ford). One afternoon, my mother picked me up from school and I introduced Craig to her. After Craig left and I got into the car, my mother announced, "That is the boy you will marry." I laughed and asked her how she knew. She said she just knew. I never questioned further. Craig asked me to go steady soon afterward.
Over the next several years, Craig and I were «bonded» to each other through crossprogramming and shared trauma to insure that Craig was under sufficient mind control to later serve as my "handler." A ritual at the First Presbyterian Church served to seal our bond, and soon other more sophisticated means of programming were utilized.
Large white vans with men in suits in the back picked us up at differing locations in Ventura and Oxnard, California, and directed us into the back of the van. Specialized equipment in briefcases and other larger equipment in the van awaited us. They routinely beat Craig in front of me to demonstrate what a weakling he really was and how powerful and in control of me they were. They would slap me around in front of him, as well, to show him how powerless he was to help me and how much in control they were.
Electroshock was used on both of us, first by inserting and activating an electric prod in my vagina and then delivering the same to Craig on his penis. We were forced to watch in a dissociative, trance state as the other was tortured and traumatized as they readied us for programming.
The bond that was formed by shared trauma was profound. It created subconscious feelings of being in this whole mess together and enforced the feelings that we would never be able to get out. After they had sufficiently worn us down, they strapped us into sophisticated chairs and hooked us up to electrodes. Tones were combined with electroshock in order to create access cues that gave them quick and easy access to us both later on. Hypnotic suggestions and love songs were presented to us, in order to facilitate our "falling madly in love." In fact my controllers created an entire system of songs intended to invoke selected, preordained feelings toward Craig and others. The list of songs was added to and cultivated over the years depending on what attitudes and emotions they wanted to create within me. These songs were some of the strongest measures of control and literally created what I thought were my own feelings about Craig, but which really were contrived feelings created to support the interests of my controllers.
Combined with scenarios such as this, my brothers and their muscle-bound friends would intercept us when we were parked after a date to kiss. They pulled Craig out of the car and beat him up as they instructed him not to touch me sexually. Then one of them would rape me in front of him as they restrained him nearby, rendering him once again powerless to help.
All these conditioning experiences served to «prepare» Craig to robotically deliver and hand me over to other men, then step aside while I passed messages or serviced them sexually. It was always his job to make sure I was delivered to the right place, at the right time, to the right person, and for many years, that is exactly what he did.
I didn't have sex with Bob Hope until later. Bob said the wait would do him good, "give him something to look forward to," and then he would lean down and poke me and do that ole' softshoe dance. He did that often. He said, "I like my fruit ripened, not plucked before its time." At other times he would say to his friends when I was around, "See, I know how to pick my fruit, huh?" Then he'd say, "Hey kid, get me some grapes," and I'd go get them and he would show off how cute and efficient I was. He was always showing off my new acts. He would say, "Do your Coca Roca dance." So I'd do a dance. Then he would say, "No, the other Coca Roca," and I'd take off my clothes while dancing. Or he would have me sing I Enjoy Being A Girl, which was a song I sang for a junior high school performance and later for him and others.
The Theater in the Round was built and opened in Woodland Hills and drew large crowds to watch the live action plays that were performed in the round theater. I attended the plays often and it was there that I was prostituted to Bob's friend, Sammy Davis, Jr. It was a brutal event that I «forgot» about as soon as he was through with me.
"Love suffereth long, and is kind…"