[M]y literary life was rather topsy-turveyed by a couple of untoward accidents last year, and a prostrating attack of influenza, and bronchitis subsequently, for the cure of which I am indebted to the climate of Portugal, …

Fursuiters dress the part of their furry persona or fursona.

Jack is so sketchy. I think he's stalking me.

Strange! as her thoughts hovered about this, his greeting, with the subtle feeling of elation, which ran with direct and certain evidence of philopolemic strength and ability to twine the threads of destiny straight from the loom of the master-spinner, her mind reverted unconsciously and without impetus on her part, to those words in the last letter of de Monasterys— […]