Ssh Quotes

Ssh.” His arm slid around her waist, his hand coming to rest on her hip in a gesture that should have been unpleasant but just felt reassuring. His voice was low when he added, “It’s fine.” The words vibrated in her ear, rich and warm. “More material for my Title IX complaint.

I...I'm sorry to come like this,' I murmured. 'Stop being so damn British about it-you don't need to apologize. Ssh, it's fine.

Ssh, I’m counting.” Travis watched me for a moment, and then leaned down to kiss my neck. “I can’t concentrate while you’re doing tha…

Lord Sedgecroft--" "Ssh. It isn't polite to interrupt me when I'm kissing you.

I bet it’s the eleventh Commandment,” murmured the priest, eyes down. “What would the eleventh Commandment be?” asked Doone, scowling. “Why not: ‘THOU SHALT SHUT UP AND LISTEN’” said the priest. “Ssh.

Ssh," he almost whisperes. "I heard you Serena." He snakes his arm around my back and rougly pulls me into him. "I get that I scare you and that you don't really like me. I understand that's how you feel, but it doesn't mean that I'm going to accept it.

KERRYANNE: Well, if I’m so spectacular why did my husband leave me for her?” KURT: (Poor baby.) Because he’s a weak *ssh*le, and you were way too much woman for him.

Are you okay?” Polly shrugged. “One of the boats isn’t back yet.” “Is it the one with the sexy beardy?” Polly swallowed and nodded. Several people from the village came up to pat her shoulder and thank her for her contribution. “Move over,” said Kerensa, and she started buttering rolls. “I can’t believe you aren’t charging for this. It’s no way to run a business. Actually you should charge treble to all the rubberneckers.” Polly gave her a look. “Okay, okay, just saying.” A substantial figure approached slowly, holding a large tray. Polly squinted in the watery sunlight. “Who’s that?” asked Kerensa. “Oh, is it the old boot?” “Ssh,” said Polly as Mrs. Manse came into earshot. She looked at what Polly was doing and sniffed. Polly bit her lip, worried that she was going to get a telling-off. This wasn’t her business, after all; she didn’t get to make these kinds of decisions. Mrs. Manse surveyed the makeshift stall, surrounded by people—it had become something of a focal point—and harrumphed crossly. Then she banged down the large tray. It held the entire day’s selection of cream horns and fancies. “I’ll need that box back in the morning,” was all she said before turning around and marching back up the road. “Well, well,” said Kerensa, as Polly started handing out cakes to hungry crew and passing children. As evening fell and the RNLI boat came back for the sixth time, empty-handed, Polly felt her fears beginning to grow again. During the day, as the other boats had

You have hang-ups because of sh*t that happened to you in your past. I already told you I don’t like being measured by that *ssh*le’s mistakes, but a second ago you thought the worst. I’ve been spending time with you, trying to show you who I am. You’re a smart woman. I know you can tell the difference between us. But if you’re gonna think that every time I’m away from you that I’m doing you wrong, then you’re never truly going to be happy.

The funny thing: I’d worried, if anything, that Boris was the one who was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word. The first time he’d turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half-asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my paperbacked copy of The Red Badge of Courage. At last—embarrassed—I faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but instead he sighed and pulled me closer, with a sleepy, snuggling motion. Ssh, Potter, he whispered, into the back of my neck. Is only me. It was weird. Was it weird? It was; and it wasn’t. I’d fallen back to sleep shortly after, lulled by his bitter, beery unwashed smell and his breath easy in my ear. I was aware I couldn’t explain it without making it sound like more than it was. On nights when I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I started up terrified from the bed, pulling me back down in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep. We’d drowse off in each other’s arms, listening to music from my iPod (Thelonious Monk, the Velvet Underground, music my mother had liked) and sometimes wake clutching each other like castaways or much younger children. And yet (this was the murky part, this was what bothered me) there had also been other, way more confusing and fucked-up nights, grappling around half-dressed, weak light sliding in from the bathroom and everything haloed and unstable without my glasses: hands on each other, rough and fast, kicked-over beers foaming on the carpet—fun and not that big of a deal when it was actually happening, more than worth it for the sharp gasp when my eyes rolled back and I forgot about everything; but when we woke the next morning stomach-down and groaning on opposite sides of the bed it receded into an incoherence of backlit flickers, choppy and poorly lit like some experimental film, the unfamiliar twist of Boris’s features fading from memory already and none of it with any more bearing on our actual lives than a dream. We never spoke of it; it wasn’t quite real; getting ready for school we threw shoes, splashed water at each other, chewed aspirin for our hangovers, laughed and joked around all the way to the bus stop. I knew people would think the wrong thing if they knew, I didn’t want anyone to find out and I knew Boris didn’t either, but all the same he seemed so completely untroubled by it that I was fairly sure it was just a laugh, nothing to take too seriously or get worked up about. And yet, more than once, I had wondered if I should step up my nerve and say something: draw some kind of line, make things clear, just to make absolutely sure he didn’t have the wrong idea. But the moment had never come. Now there was no point in speaking up and being awkward about the whole thing, though I scarcely took comfort in the fact.

Let him help.” Her grandfather’s voice was fading. As Miranda looked down at him once more, his body went limp with exhaustion, his ramblings lowered to murmurs. She wondered if he’d already slipped into his strange, private dreams. “Ssh…” Freeing her hand, she placed it gently on his forehead. “Ssh…just rest now…” “It’s lonely, Miranda. He’ll help you. Let him do that.” She stepped back from the bed, watching the rise and fall of her grandfather’s chest--his deep, easy breathing of sleep. All around them, the shadows had grown darker. They’d lengthened and thickened and crept in from the musty hall, and now they slid along the walls and over the headboard, covering the old man’s face like a death mask. “Oh, Grandpa,” Miranda whispered. “I wish I knew what you were talking about.” “I think,” said a voice behind her, “he’s talking about me.

I don’t know how any of these spirits--or the people they once were--can survive the pain they’re in.” “You’d be surprised what people can survive,” Etienne murmured. “When they have to.” Something about the way he said it caught at her heart. She lowered her pillow and started to reach for him, but he was already off the bed, moving swiftly and silently toward the dark, open doorway to the sunporch. “Etienne, what--” “Ssh,” he hissed at her. “Something’s out there.

Sleepover!” Ashley giggled while Parker pressed a finger to her lips. “Ssh! This is a covert operation! You want to wake everybody up?” Miranda didn’t know whether to laugh or be upset. For the time being, her discussion with Etienne was on hold. “What is going on?” “Etienne told Gage he might stop by here tonight.” Parker’s grin widened. “We’re not interrupting anything, are we?” Etienne frowned at his cousin. Gage returned it with an innocent shrug. “That’s right,” Ashley picked up. “So we figured, why should y’all have all the fun?” “Ashley brought chips,” Roo added, then brandished a greasy paper bag. “I made popcorn.” Leaning toward Gage, Parker mumbled, “She can’t ruin popcorn, can she?” “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Gage mumbled back.

The Blue One will live to see the Caterpillar rut everything they walk on—seacliff buckwheat cleared, relentless ice plant to replace it, the wild fields bisected by the scenic highway, canyons covered with cul-de-sacs, gas stations, comfortable homes, the whole habitat along this coastal stretch endangered, everything, everyone, everywhere in it danger as well— but now they're logging the one stilling hawk Smith sights, the conspiring grasses' shh shhhh ssh, the coreopsis Mattoni's boot barely spares, and, netted, a solitary blue butterfly. Smith ahead of him chasing the stream, Mattoni wonders if he plans to swim again. Just like that the spell breaks. It's years later, Mattoni lecturing on his struggling butterfly. How fragile. • If his daughter spooled out the fabric she's chosen for her wedding gown, raw taffeta, burled, a bright hued tan, perhaps Mattoni would remember how those dunes looked from a distance, the fabric, balanced between her arms, making valleys in the valley, the fan above her mimicking the breeze. He and his friend loved everything softly undulating under the coyest wind, and the rough truth as they walked through the land's scratch and scrabble and no one was there, then, besides Mattoni and his friend, walking along Dolan's Creek, in that part of California they hated to share. The ocean, a mile or so off, anything but passive so that even there, in the canyon, they sometimes heard it smack and pull well-braced rocks. The breeze, basic: salty, bitter, sour, sweet. Smith trying to identify the scent, tearing leaves of manzanita, yelling: "This is it. Here! This is it!" his hand to his nose, his eyes, having finally seen the source of his pleasure, alive. • In the lab, after the accident, he remembered it, the butterfly. How good a swimmer Smith had been, how rough the currents there at Half Moon Bay, his friend alone with reel and rod—Mattoni back at school early that year, his summer finished too soon— then all of them together in the sneaker wave, and before that the ridge, congregations of pinking blossoms, and one of them bowing, scaring up the living, the frail and flighty beast too beautiful to never be pinned, those nights Mattoni worked without his friend, he remembered too. He called the butterfly Smith's Blue

I want you to make love to me, Eros,” he whispers in the darkness of the bedroom. “Now. Tomorrow. Always.” I kiss the tip of my finger and place it over his lips to stop him from saying more. I can't listen to him use words like always, or even tomorrow. As bad as I ache at the thought of watching him walk away from me, I know there is no tomorrow for the two of us, regardless of what happens with him and Kathleen. “Ssh. Let's just enjoy tonight, okay?

Sending Messages in Real Time to Current Users Cisco IOS running on a device at least tries to allow current users to see log messages when they happen. Not every router or switch may have users connected, but if some user is logged in, the router or switch benefits by making the network engineer aware of any issues. By default, IOS shows log messages to console users for all severity levels of messages. That default happens because of the default logging console global configuration command. In fact, if you have been using a console port throughout your time reading this book, you likely have already noticed many syslog messages, like messages about interfaces coming up or going down. For other users (that is, Telnet and SSH users), the device requires a two-step process before the user sees the messages. First, IOS has another global configuration setting—logging monitor—that tells IOS to enable the

Problem Isolation Using the ping Command Someone sends you an email or text, or a phone message, asking you to look into a user’s network problem. You Secure Shell (SSH) to a router and issue a ping command that works. What does that result rule out as a possible reason for the problem? What does it rule in as still being a possible root cause? Then you issue another ping to another address, and this time the ping fails. Again, what does the failure of that ping command tell you? What parts of IPv4 routing may still be a problem, and what parts do you now know are not a problem? The ping command gives us one of the most common network troubleshooting tools. When the ping command succeeds, it confirms many individual parts of how IP routing works, ruling out some possible causes of the current problem. When a ping command fails, it often helps narrow down where in the internetwork the

And then. Astonishing. Again. As she was skipping up the back stairs on her way to the attic bedroom to fetch something, something innocent - a book, a handkerchief, afterwards she would never remember what - she was almost sent flying by Howie on his way down. 'I was looking for a bathroom,' he said. 'Well, we only have one,' Ursula said, 'and it's not up these-' but before the sentence was finished she found herself pinned awkwardly against the neglected floral wallpaper of the backstairs, a pattern that had been up since the house was built. 'Pretty girl,' he said. His breath smelt of mint. And then again she was again subjected to pushing and shoving from the outsized Howie. But this time it was not his tongue trying to jam its way into her mouth but something inexpressibly more intimate. She tried to say something but before a sound came out his hand clamped over her mouth, over half her face in fact, and he grinned and said 'Ssh,' as if they were conspirators in a game. With his other hand he was fiddling with her clothes and she squealed in protest. Then he was butting up against her, the way the bullocks in the Lower Field did against the gate. She tried to struggle but he was twice, three times her size even and she might as well have been a mouse in Hattie's jaws. She tried to see what he was doing but he was pressed so tightly against her that all she could see was his big square jaw and the slight brush of stubble, unnoticeable from a distance. Ursula had seen her brothers naked, knew what they had between their legs - wrinkled cockles, a little spout - and it seemed to have little to do with this painful piston-driven thing that was now ramming inside her like a weapon of war. Her own body breached. The arch that led to womanhood did not seem so triumphal any more, merely brutal and completely uncaring. And then Howie gave a great bellow, more ox than Oxford man, and was hitching himself back together and grinning at her. 'English girls,' he said, shaking his head and laughing. He wagged his finger at her, almost disapproving, as if she had engineered the disgusting thing that had just happened and said, 'You really are something!' He laughed again and bounded down the stairs, taking them three at a time, as though his descent had been barely interrupted by their strange tryst. Ursula was left to stare at the floral wallpaper. She had never noticed before that the flowers were wisteria, the same flower that grew on the arch over the back porch. This must be what in literature was referred to as 'deflowering', she thought. It had always sounded like a rather pretty word. When she came back downstairs a half-hour later, a half-hour of thoughts and emotions considerably more intense than was usual for a Saturday morning, Sylvie and Hugh were on the doorstep waving a dutiful goodbye to the disappearing rear end of Howie's car. 'Thank goodness they weren't staying,' Sylvie said. 'I don't think I could have been bothered with Maurice's bluster.' 'Imbeciles,' Hugh said cheerfully. 'All right?' he said, catching sight of Ursula in the hallway. 'Yes,' she said. Any other answer would have been too awful.

The impact on your employment of evading the corporate firewall is left as an exercise for the reader

There was no way that man would be able to pick up the cup and get it all the way to his mouth before it spilled all over. But he kept smiling, as if he had a great big trick up his sleeve and w proud of it. What was he going to do? With those With those crazy shak ing hands, he reached into his coat and brought out a straw "A straw." "Yup. A big, long, yellow straw that he dropped right into the cup. It looked like a little kid was going to use it, but the thing worked perfectly. Think about it for a minute. After it was in, he didn't once have to use his hands, just his lips. But you know what I loved most? After he took his first sip, he looked up with the proudest expression on his face. No double crossing hands were going to stop him from having his coffee." She slid closer to me. "I like that story." "I liked seeing it, but you know what struck me after I saw him? The first thing? That I had to tell you about it. Partly because I want to tell you everything now, and partly because because you're my straw, Maris. Without you, I know this now, there'd be no way I'd ever be able to" "Drink coffee?” She giggled. "Drink my life. I've been trying to think of a good way of letting you know how much I love you. Seeing that guy showed me. Before you, I had such shaky hands. I know you won't, but I love you so much I wish you'd marry me." She put a hand over my mouth and said "Ssh!" But also smiled-beamed-so at least I knew she'd been thinking about it, too.

He had called to her in need. The moment she realized that, she relaxed, holding him in her arms with acceptance. He needed her, and she could do no other than help him. His hands were everywhere, rough, hurting even; his teeth bit at her much too hard. Jacques. Deliberately she sought the red haze of his mind. She was calm, tranquil, accepting of his bestial nature. Come back to me. He latched on to her like a drowning man, merging his mind with hers. He was breathing hard, in such pain. She could feel the dark desire beating at him, the demand that he claim what was rightfully his. Jacques struggled for control of the monster within him. Shea kissed his throat, the hard line of his jaw, a soothing, gentle touch. It’s all right. Come back to me. He buried his face in her neck, crushed her tightly to him. He was exhausted, in pain, afraid he had driven her even further away. It was Shea who stroked his hair, murmured soothing nonsense, Shea who lay soft and pliant close to his heart. Her palm shaped the side of his face, a physical contact; her mind merged firmly, wholly, with his. I am sorry. Jacques rested his chin on top of her head, unwilling to face the condemnation he feared would be reflected in her eyes. Ssh, just be still. I should never have left you alone. You did not cause this. His arms tightened momentarily. Shea, do not think that. You are not to blame for my madness. My body needs yours. The mating between lifemates is not exactly the same as human mating. I nearly hurt you, Shea. I am sorry. You’re the one in pain, Jacques, she pointed out gently. She realized she was using their mental link, accepting it as natural. She sighed, reached up to kiss his chin. They held each other like two children after a terrible fright, taking comfort in one another’s closeness. Shea became aware after a time that her skin was against his, bare, sensitive, her breasts pressed into his side. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened to my shirt.” She lay motionless, drowsy and content. Being so close to him should have bothered her, but it simply seemed normal. Her gaze found the material slashed to ribbons, scattered on the floor beside the bed. “You were in a bit of a hurry, I see,” she pointed out, making an effort to get up to get dressed. When Shea would have pulled away from him, Jacques refused to relinquish his hold. Instead, he reached lazily for the quilt and pulled it around her. His smile was in her mind.

With the ability to iterate through IP addresses and ports, we will update our vulnerability-checking script. Now our script will test all 254 IP addresses on the 192.168.95.0/ 24 subnet with the ports offering telnet, SSH, smtp, http, imap, and https services.

In 1988, RSH provided an excellent (although not very secure) method for a system administrator to remotely connect to a machine and manage it by performing a series of terminal commands on the host. The Secure Shell (SSH) protocol has since replaced RSH by combining RSH with a public-key cryptographic scheme in order to secure the traffic.

Pexpect has the ability to interact with programs, watch for expected outputs, and then respond based on expected outputs. This makes it an excellent tool of choice for automating the process of brute forcing SSH user credentials.

Unfortunately, Drupal’s hashes are salted (a random string is prepended to the password), making them time-consuming to crack. Even hours after launching John, we cannot get a positive result. It looks like the passwords are pretty strong. Our only other option is to plant an SSH key.