I laid it aside for a period during an abatement in formal social activities; then bringing it forth from its camphor-ball nest for a special occasion I found I could scarce force my way down into the trousers, and that the waistcoat buttons could not be made to meet the buttonholes, and that the coat, after finally I had struggled into it, bound me as with chains by reason of the pull at armpits and between the shoulders.

I could not get my arms down to my sides at all.

I could only use them flapper fashion.
I felt like a penguin.

I imagine I looked a good bit like one too.
But I did not blame myself, who was the real criminal, or the grocer who was accessory before the fact.

I put the fault on the tailor, who was innocent.