Rails Remove Quotes

I didn't really want to talk. I'd wanted him there, but I asn't sure why. Maybe just to have someone to drink with. Actually, that sounded pretty good at the moment. I sat on the seat of the chaise and he sat on the foot, and we just drank at each other for a while. After a few minutes, he leaned back against the railing, like maybe he wanted a backrest, and I shifted my feet over to make room. But I guess I didn't shift far enough, because a large, warm hand covered my right foot, adjusting it slightly. And then it just stayed there, like he'd forgotten to remove it. I looked at it. Pritkin's hands were oddly refined compared to the rest of him: strong but long fingered, with elegant bones and short-clipped nails. They always looked like they'd wandered off from some fine gentleman, one they'd probably like to get back to, because God knew they weren't getting a manicure while attached to him.

Preparing the manor means removing the disc-lift section, installing railings at a few places. Don’t forget the baby-friendly stairs, even though the newborn won’t use it for another year. Rashad has finished the carpet replacement and floor disinfecting, not that the baby will be crawling anytime soon. Other tasks include removing Meera’s books and crafts, also the sharp objects from up to a height.

I want you, too, Liana.” A feather-light kiss, lingering and warm beneath my ear. “I need you… like the sun needs the sky.” A hotter kiss down the slope of my neck, while he kept my hands and my body locked in place against the railing. “Like the stars need the night.” He removed his mouth from my skin, sliding his hands up my arms, and then backed his body away from mine, holding me at the waist. “Like a dragon needs flight.

You do not want to do that,” Green said ominously. “I beg you, sir,” Brown pleaded, “do not remove the gag.” The captain stopped for a moment and looked from man to man. “What, pray tell, is she going to do?” Green and Brown said nothing, but they both backed up, almost to the wall. “Good God,” the captain said impatiently. “Two grown men.” And then he removed the gag. “You!” Poppy burst out, practically spitting at Green. Green blanched. “And you,” she growled at Brown. “And you!” she finished, glaring at the captain. The captain quirked a brow. “And now that you’ve demonstrated your extensive vocabulary—” “I am going to kill each and every one of you,” she hissed. “How dare you tie me up and leave me here for hours—” “It was thirty minutes,” Brown protested. “It felt like hours,” she railed, “and if you think I’m going to sit here and accept this type of abuse from a pack of idiot pirates—” She coughed uncontrollably. The bloody captain had shoved the gag back in. “Right,” the captain said. “I understand perfectly now.” Poppy bit his finger. “That,” he said smoothly, “was a mistake.” Poppy glared at him. “Oh, and by the by,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “we prefer the term privateer.” She growled, grinding her teeth around the gag.

You mean you’re not going to kiss my wrist again,” I said. “But that’s all right, because I am going to kiss you.” And I did. If I could keep a single moment for all time, that would be the one. I became the very air; I was full of stars. I was the soaring spaces between the spires of the cathedral, the solemn breath of chimneys, a whispered prayer upon the winter wind. I was silence, and I was music, one clear transcendent chord rising toward Heaven. I believed, then, that I would have risen bodily into the sky but for the anchor of his hand in my hair and his round soft perfect mouth. No Heaven but this! I thought, and I knew that it was true to a standard even St. Clare could not have argued. Then it was done, and he was holding both my hands between his and saying, “In some ballad or Porphyrian romance, we would run off together.” I looked quickly at his face, trying to discern whether he was proposing we do just that. The resolve written in his eyes said no, but I could see exactly where I would have to push, and how hard, to break that resolve. It would be shockingly easy, but I found I did not wish it. My Kiggs could not behave so shabbily and still remain my Kiggs. Some other part of him would break, along with his resolve, and I did not see a way to make it whole again. The jagged edge of it would stab at him all his life. If we were to go forward from here, we would proceed not rashly, not thoughtlessly, but Kiggs-and-Phina fashion. That was the only way it could work. “I think I’ve heard that ballad,” I said. “It’s beautiful but it ends sadly.” He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against mine. “Is it less sad that I’m going to ask you not to kiss me again?” “Yes. Because it’s just for now. The day will come.” “I want to believe that.” “Believe it.” He took a shaky breath. “I’ve got to go.” “I know.” I let him go inside first; my presence was not appropriate for tonight’s ritual. I leaned against the parapet, watching my breath puff gray against the blackening sky as if I were a dragon whispering smoke into the wind. The conceit made me smile, and then an idea caught me. Cautiously, avoiding ice, I hauled myself up onto the parapet. It had a wide balustrade, adequate for sitting, but I did not intend merely to sit. With comical slowness, like Comonot attempting stealth, I drew my feet up onto the railing. I removed my shoes, wanting to feel the stone beneath my feet.

In Hiding - coming summer of 2020 WAYNE ANTHONY SEEKS REDEMPTION FROM A BAD DAY - Although warned about getting the stitches wet, he believed a hot shower was the only road to his redemption. Experienced taught him the best way to relieve the tightness in his lower back was by standing beneath the near-scalding water. Dropping the rest of his clothing, he turned the shower on full blast. The hot water rushed from the showerhead filling the tiny room with steam, instantly the small mirror on the medicine cabinet fogged up. The man quietly pulled the shower curtain back and entered the shower stall without a sound. Years of acting as another’s shadow had trained him to live soundlessly. The hot water cascaded over his body as the echo from the pounding water deadened slightly. Grabbing the sample sized soap, he pulled the paper off and tossed the wrapper over the curtain rail. Wayne rubbed the clean smelling block until his large hands disappeared beneath the lather. He ignored the folded washcloth, opting to use his hands across his body. Gently he cleaned the injury allowing the slime of bacterial soap to remove the residual of the rust-colored betadine. All that remained when he finished was the pale orange smear from the antiseptic. This scar was not the only mar to his body. The water cascaded down hard muscles making rivulets throughout the thatches of dark hair. He raised his arms gingerly as he washed beneath them; the tight muscles of his abdomen glistened beneath the torrent of water. Opening a bottle of shampoo-slash-conditioner, he applied a dab then ran his hands across his scalp. Finally, the tension in his square jaw had eased, making his handsome face more inviting. The cords of his neck stood out as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. It coursed down his chest leading down to his groin where the scented wash caught in his pelvic hair. Wayne's body was one of perfection for any woman; if that was, she could ignore the mutilations. Knife injuries left their mark with jagged white lines. Most of these, he had doctored himself; his lack of skill resulted in crude scars. The deepest one, undulated along the left side of his abdomen, that one had required the art of a surgeon. Dropping his arms, he surrenders himself to the pelting deluge from the shower. The steamy water cascaded down his body, pulling the soap toward the drain. Across his back, it slid down several small indiscernible pockmarks left by gunshot wounds, the true extent of their damage far beneath his skin. Slowly the suds left his body, snaking down his muscular legs. It slithered down the scars on his left knee, the result of replacement surgery after a thug took a bat to it. Wayne stood until the hot water cooled, and ran translucent over his body. Finally, he washes the impact of the long day from his mind and spirit.

So, you're a Rails shop? Take a Rails application you've actually built and deployed. Carve out some functional areas from the application: remove the search feature, or the customer order updater. Bundle up the app with all its assets, so that a single "vagrant up" gives a candidate an app that runs. Have them add back the feature you removed.

Narian was outside, leaning on the railing and gazing out over the city and the rolling hills beyond. I walked up behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders, resting my head upon his back. “Will you miss the mountains?” I asked, and he twisted to face me, lightly holding me around the waist, my hands upon his chest. “I can still see them, Alera, just from a different perspective. And I imagine I will eventually return for a visit.” I nodded and gave him a light kiss. “I want to show you something.” He looked curiously at me, and I removed my betrothal ring from the chain around my neck, placing it on my finger. “I am no longer going to hide that we are in love.” He smiled and took me into his embrace, then we went to the King’s Dining Hall on the second floor together. We entered at the perfect moment, holding hands, for everyone else had already arrived. All conversation stopped, but we calmly took chairs next to each other, ignoring the astounded expressions on the faces around us. With our attitudes unassailable, our guests glanced curiously at one another, hardly daring to ask. It was my effervescent sister who finally spoke. “When is the wedding?” At her candid question, our guests burst into animated conversation, and I leaned close to kiss Narian--entirely inappropriately--full on the lips. Much was unknown to me in that moment--when the treaty with the High Priestess would be signed, when the citizenry would accept Narian, when our wedding would take place, what life would bring to me from here--but for once I was not hiding, from anyone or anything. Instead, I was staring into deep blue eyes filled with love, acceptance and hope. Deep blue eyes that would be mine to gaze into forever.

the Mexican sierra has “XVII-15-IX” spines in the dorsal fin. These can easily be counted. But if the sierra strikes hard on the line so that our hands are burned, if the fish sounds and nearly escapes and finally comes in over the rail, his colors pulsing and his tail beating the air, a whole new relational externality has come into being—an entity which is more than the sum of the fish plus the fisherman. The only way to count the spines of the sierra unaffected by this second relational reality is to sit in a laboratory, open an evil-smelling jar, remove a stiff colorless fish from a formalin solution, count the spines, and write the truth “D.XVII-15-IX.” There you have recorded a reality which cannot be assailed—probably the least important reality concerning either the fish or yourself. It is good to know what you are doing. The man with his pickled fish has set down one truth and has recorded in his experience many lies. The fish is not that color, that texture, that dead, nor does he smell that way…. [W]e were determined not to let a passion for unassailable little truths draw in the horizon and crowd the sky down on us.

We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.” “André Berthiaume,” I said. “What?” he asked. “The French writer who said that.” Mr. Daly smiled and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by now that you’ve read that somewhere. What he meant is that being an operative is a mask we wear, a job we do. It’s not exactly who we are, but it’s always a part of us too. If I stopped being a handler tomorrow, some piece of me would always be on a mission.” I thought about that for a minute. “So what you’re saying is now that I’m an operative, there’s no turning back?” “No.” He sat up straight and leaned closer to the railing. His voice came out with a quiet intensity. “What I’m saying is that it was already a part of you before you even got here.

Out of New York came a governor from the moneyed class, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and he drove Murray to fits—being from that hated family. (FDR’s cousin, Teddy, had forced Murray to remove a white supremacist plank from the Oklahoma constitution before he would allow it to join the union.) At first, Franklin Roosevelt was dismissed as a man without heft, a dilettante running on one of the nation’s great names. Then he took up the cause of the “forgotten man”—the broken farmer on the plains, the apple vendor in the city, the factory hand now hitting the rails. And though he spoke with an accent that sounded funny to anyone outside the mid-Atlantic states, and he seemed a bit jaunty with that cigarette holder, Roosevelt roused people with a blend of hope and outrage. He knew hardship and the kind of emotional panic that comes when your world collapses. He had been felled by double pneumonia in 1918, which nearly killed him, and polio in 1921, which left him partially paralyzed. He had been told time and again in the prime of his young adulthood that he had no future, that he would not walk again, that he might not live much longer. “If you spent two years in bed trying to wiggle your toe, after that anything would seem easy,” he said. Hoover believed the cure for the Depression was to prime the pump at the producer end, helping factories and business owners get up and running again. Goods would roll off the lines, prosperity would follow. Roosevelt said it made no sense to gin up the machines of production if people could not afford to buy what came out the factory door. “These unhappy times call for the building of plans that rest upon the forgotten, the unorganized, the indispensable units of economic powers,” FDR said on April 7, 1932, in a radio speech that defined the central theme of his campaign. He called for faith “in the forgotten man at the bottom of the economic pyramid.” That forgotten man was likely to be a person with prairie dirt under the fingernails. “How much do the shallow thinkers realize that approximately one half of our population, fifty or sixty million people, earn their living by farming or in small towns where existence immediately depends on farms?

My self is at one remove Because it has gone to you Who will not display The sense of me another, Being bound in yourself By my forlorn desire. And yet I would not not love If I could choose not to; For I require to play By hazarding myself To you, my self, the other Whom I always desire. — Veronica Forrest-Thomson, from “Canzon, for British Rail Services,” Collected Poems and Translations (Allardyce Barnett, 1990),

Grace, my brethren, deserves our praise, since it does so much for its object. Grace does not choose a man and leave him as he is. My brethren and sisters, men rail at grace sometimes as though it were opposed to morality, whereas it is the great source and cause of all complete morality — indeed, there is no real holiness in the sight of God except that which grace creates, and which grace sustains. This woman, apart from grace, had remained black and defiled still to her dying day, but the grace of God wrought a wondrous transformation, removing the impudence of her face, the flattery from her lips, the finery from her dress, and the lust from her heart. Eyes which were full of adultery, were now founts of repentance; lips which were doors of lascivious speech, now yield holy kisses — the profligate was a penitent, the castaway a new creature. All the actions which are attributed to this woman illustrate the transforming power of divine grace. She exhibited the deepest repentance. She wept abundantly. She wept out of no mere sentimentalism, but at the remembrance of her many crimes. She wept for sorrow and for shame as she thought over her early childhood, and how she had slighted a mother’s training, how she had listened to the tempter’s voice, and hurried on from bad to worse. Every part of her life-story would rise before her as a painfully vivid dream. The sight of those blessed feet helped her to remember the dangerous paths into which she had wandered; the sluices of grief were drawn up, and her soul flowed out in tears. O blessed Spirit of grace, we adore thee as we see the rock smitten and the waters gushing. “He causeth his wind to blow and the waters flow.

I press a soft kiss to the small freckle on her left shoulder and remove my jacket, draping it over her. Then I cage her in, my body surrounding her and my hands resting on the railing.

you are back in your grandmother’s attic looking at photographs of people you don’t know, ladies in floral print dresses, wearing feathered and veiled hats; men with cigarettes, leaning against automobiles, thumbs through their belt loops; an empty railroad depot, the tracks heading away to a landscape of bare trees, the rail yard littered with handcarts and piles of sooty snow, and you hear your mother calling you to lunch, but you are curious about this missing snapshot, the four triangular corner mounts forming a dark rectangle. Who removed the photo from the album and why? And who is the purloined ghost? And at that moment you realize that secrets lie all around you, that the world is so much larger than you had imagined, and that you are a part of it, and that this is a world of loss, and that all of these people whose names are penned on the borders of the photographs, whose smiles and shadows have been preserved, these people named Eustache and Marie, Walter, Pamille, Theona, Grace, Emma, Cousin Butchie, Big Fred, Little Fred, that all of them were tillers in the garden where the flower of you now blooms.

Stars, Sam. We mucked it. I mean, I mucked it. And not just for us. Yet I recall pure joy: your bike hot between my legs, your arms locked ’round my waist. I recall poor Second’s chiding before I blinked it off. I recall laughter and all of those soldiers from someone else’s war standing on that terrace singing yet another Terran victory rag. You told me later that you didn’t know I’d make a run at the canyon wall ’til I torqued it, thumbing your bike’s twin throttles hard enough to singe our legs as the acceleration turned into an increasing roar. By the time we hit fifty, I couldn’t even hear you yelling at me to stop over the wind. I didn’t think you were serious. We’d climbed that mesa in daylight when we were younger, smaller, bendier. We’d done it with safety rails and belts, with hoverbikes that floated back down like carnival balloons when we failed; we’d done it with our parents cheering and a Grass Priest standing watch in case we needed healing. That run should’ve been a lark, Sam. But the night was dark as space, and our planet has no moon. You grabbed hard as I pulled the yoke. The engines screamed. I meant to pull up, climb that mesa vertically—see if we could rocket to the top before I gunned again like we’d done a hundred times as kids. But I timed it too late. I saw the mesa wall in our headlamps, and then everything went black. The next thing I recall is waking up on the Unity ship Ascendant with Ken’ri Mureen of Glos smiling down at me. Those big round eyes in her lovely, lying face. I thought I’d surely killed you, Sam, but Mureen swore you were fine. Mureen swore removing my Second was only temporary—swore surgery would fix the soup the crash had made of my brain. She made me sign forms, and then Ma came in with pastries. I still didn’t believe you’d made it out, but Ma swore it too. You know the gist after that—mostly—but there’s a lot I never told—

For example, early in 1642 in Norwich it was believed that local apprentices planned to attack the cathedral to remove the altar rails and the organ, in response to which the dean and chapter decided themselves to dismantle the rails but to save the organ. With rumours that the apprentices intended to attack on Shrove Tuesday, they took drastic measures to defend the cathedral, locking the doors and gathering prebendaries and choristers to defend the building, but also bringing in some musketeers, whose weapons were ‘ready charged with bullets and one of them had in his musket a bullet split in parts for to shoot the apprentices when they came’, some halberdiers, ‘expecting to run their halberds in any bodies that dare offer to come’, and some ‘pistol blades’, one of whom drunkenly boasted that he was ready to kill hundreds of apprentices. In fact, none appeared and, according to the mocking printed account of the event, the defenders ‘stood like so many Abraham Ninnies doing nothing but tell how many crows flew over the pinnacle’, the author concluding that ‘they would rather lose their lives than their organs, so fast are they glued to their pipes and popish trinkets’.12

We stop at the gate to the apartment, but Bruno’s still hanging on to me. “The key,” he says, swaying his hips. “Pocket on left.” “So put me down and get it out.” He lowers his lips to my ear. “You get it for me?” Goose bumps. All over. I may have decided I want his attention, but that’s a little much. I remove my hands from his neck and push my legs down against his arm, making myself as heavy as possible. He gives in and lets me slide off, then opens the gate. I hop over to the stairs and use the railing as leverage to hoist myself up the first and second steps, blood pounding in my ears with every move. With a top floor apartment, this could take an hour. Bruno scoops me back up without a word and trudges up the stairs. Despite the strength and precision it takes him to avoid letting any of my appendages smack into the wall, he’s not even winded when we finally get to the apartment. He sets me down on the couch--the boys’ temporary bed folded away inside--and carefully props my giant foot on a pillow. He rummages in the kitchen and comes back with a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice, wrapped in a hand towel. The weight of it sends a fresh wave of pain up to my temples and I lean back, bracing myself. “I am sorry!” he says, a deep line between his eyebrows. “It’s fine.” I force a laugh. “This”--I motion to my foot--“is definitely not your fault.” “It is. I should have gone. It would not have happened.” If he had come with me, I know exactly what would have happened, and it wouldn’t have involved sightseeing. It would have been The Kissing Bench Part II.

On March 12, 2015, the AIM Development Company, that deals in scrap metal, met to discuss demolishing the now defunct Verso Paper Mill in Bucksport, located at the head of Penobscot Bay. The paper mill was first built by the Maine Seaboard Paper Company in 1930. Demolition of the mill is expected to be completed in 2016. However, company representatives and town officials did not discuss what AIM might do with the 250-acre waterfront site once the demolition work is complete. Originally it was believed that a recycling facility, using the deep-water port access to export salvaged metals, would be the most likely thing to be built on this site; however this plan has now been scrapped. In 1980 this mill employed more than 1,350 workers and was the largest employer in Bucksport, a town of about 5,000 residents. The demolition and removal took much longer than anyone expected and as salvage crews continued working, a fire broke out on March 19, 2017. Apparently the fire erupted at about 8:30 a,m. as workers using cutting torches, cut into the metal exterior wall of the mill. Spreading to the roof of the building, it was debated as to the feasibility of allowing the fire to destroy the remaining structure. Considering the safety involved firefighters from Bucksport and surrounding towns extinguished the fire. It is expected that the remaining remnants will be demolished by the middle of 2017 in fact the company has open rail cars in position, waiting to remove whatever is left of the mill.

As I walk across the lobby, I hear a scream coming from below, coming from the Pit. It’s not a good-natured Dauntless shout, or the shriek of someone who is scared but delighted, or anything but the particular tone, the particular pitch of terror. Small rocks scatter behind us as I run down to the bottom of the Pit, my breathing fast and heavy, but even. Three tall, dark-clothed people stand near the railing below. They are crowded around a fourth, smaller target, and even though I can’t see much about them, I know a fight when I see one. Or, I would call it a fight, if it wasn’t three against one. One of the attackers wheels around, sees me, and sprints in the other direction. When I get closer I see one of the remaining attackers holding the target up, over the chasm, and I shout, “Hey!” I see her hair, blond, and I can hardly see anything else. I collide with one of the attackers--Drew, I can tell by the color of his hair, orange-red--and slam him into the chasm barrier. I hit him once, twice, three times in the face, and he collapses to the ground, and then I’m kicking him and I can’t think, can’t think at all. “Four.” Her voice is quiet, ragged, and it’s the only thing that could possibly reach me in this place. She’s hanging from the railing, dangling over the chasm like a piece of bait from a fishing hook. The other one, the last attacker, is gone. I run toward her, grabbing her under her shoulders, and pull her over the edge of the railing. I hold her against me. She pressed her face to my shoulder, twisting her fingers into my shirt. Drew is on the ground, collapsed. I hear him groan as I carry her away--not to the infirmary, where the others who went after her would think to look for her, but to my apartment, in its lonely, removed corridor. I shove my way through the apartment door and lay her down on my bed. I run my fingers over her nose and cheekbones to check for breaks, then I feel for her pulse, and lean in close to listen to her breathing. Everything seems normal, steady. Even the bump on the back of her head, though swollen and scraped, doesn’t seem serious. She isn’t badly injured, but she could have been. My hands shake when I pull away from her. She isn’t badly injured, but Drew might be. I don’t even know how many times I hit him before she finally said my name and woke me up. The rest of my body starts to shake, too, and I make sure there’s a pillow supporting her head, then leave the apartment to go back to the railing next to the Pit.

He suddenly thrust. Amanda blocked the blow, but barely. He thrust again and again, driving her back across the ship before she even knew what was happening. In mere seconds, she had her back at the rail and sweat was pouring down her body, pooling between her breasts and legs. She was even more furious than before at his display of skill. He smiled. “Come now, darling. I have no wish to fight with you, especially as your blade is not blunted. Besides, we both know you cannot best me.” But she would try. She would make him sit up and take real notice of her. She was not a fancy lady, but she could match him in every other way. Amanda growled and attacked. She thrust hard and he met her, taking a step back, a step aside, until they were moving rapidly in a vicious circle of hard blow after hard blow. Iron rang. Sweat burned in her eyes. Of course he was master here. She hadn’t expected to win. But she wanted to somehow hurt him. There was nothing she wanted more—she wanted him to feel what she had felt, damn him! Her arm was aching now. She was at her physical limit, but she would not give up. “Damn you!” she gasped, and she halted, pretending to be exhausted and ready to submit to his mercy. He bought her game, a grin appearing on his handsome face. “Well done,” he began. Amanda feinted, thrust and sliced off the rest of his shirt buttons. He was so surprised he simply stared down at his shirt, now shredded in two. Then, slowly, he looked up at her. His blue eyes were brilliant, hot, and he slowly, boldly smiled. He wasn’t angry. She understood the heat, and a savage sense of triumph rose up in her. He might not want her with his fine intellectual mind, but just now, she had provoked him so thoroughly that he wanted her right then. She knew, beyond any doubt, that reason had been conquered by lust. “What’s wrong, de Warenne?” she murmured seductively. “Maybe it isn’t a fancy lady that you really want.” Before she had even delivered this last call to arms, he attacked. He had the edge of both shirt and chemise hooked over his blade, and with one flick of his wrist, blunted tip or no, her clothes would be ripped in two. She stilled, breathing hard, her body pulsing in frenzied excitement. “Go ahead,” she managed. “Take my clothes.” His face hardened. He slowly lowered the big blunted tip of his sword between her breasts. “I believe we are done,” he said harshly. She stared at the tip, then lifted her gaze. “I am not done.” His brows lifted. “I have my blade against your heart, darling. In actual battle, you would be dead.” “Most men would prefer me warm and alive in their beds,” she challenged tauntingly. His eyes blazed. He removed the sword, tossing it aside and it clattered across the deck. “You have won, Amanda,” he said. “I concede defeat.” He was turning to walk away. Amanda thrust, catching the buttons of his breeches, and cut them free. He froze. “Maybe,” she said softly, “my opponent would be as easily deceived as you have been and throw his sword aside too soon, falsely thinking himself in no further danger. Maybe, in a real battle, skill will have little to do with the victory. Turn around,” she ordered.