To have to conceal one's becoming clothes under a toga, on all state and official occasions, is irritating to any well-dressed man even in the coldest weather, when the weight of the toga is unnoticed, since its warmth is grateful.
But to have to stew in a toga in July, when the lightest clothing is none too light, is a positive affliction, even out of doors on a breezy day.
Indoors, in still and muggy weather, when one is jammed in a throng for an hour or two, a toga becomes an instrument of torture.

Yet togas we must wear at all public functions, and though we rage at the infliction and wonder at the queerness of the fate which has, by mere force of traditional fashion, condemned us to such unconscionable sufferings, yet no one can devise any means of breaking with our hereditary social conventions in attire.

Therefore we continue to suffer though we rail.
If a toga is a misery to a strong, well man, conceive of the agonies I suffered in my weakened state, when I needed rest and fresh air, and had to stand, supporting that load of garments, the sweat soaking my inner tunic, fainting from exhaustion and heat.
I somewhat revived when Tanno edged his way through the crowd and stood by me.

We talked of my health, he rebuking me for my rashness in coming out so soon, I protesting that I was plenty well enough and feeling better for my outing.
There we stood an hour or more, very uncomfortable, Tanno making conversation to keep me cheerful.
I needed his companionship and the atmosphere he diffused.

For in addition to my illness and the circumstances I have described, I suffered from the proximity of Talponius Pulto, my only enemy among my acquaintances in the City.