It is proper to be in the fitting room to fit, and as I am proper, I fit into that description. Into the three suits I wished to try, I may not fit, which will indeed be trying, but it does not suit to say so.
The first presents me as a backward kangaroo, pouch pouting out the outback. The second, well, I would wear it well . . . if I wished to wear a well. The final one needs to be unbuttoned fast, before I am dunned for damage. Too titteringly tight, too gruesomely green, too celery-stalkish to be worn by the most steadfast stalker.
The score is woefully untied and I'm outnumbered by "14"s and "16"s. I can't hold out, I can't hold it in. In this fitting room I throw one, and it suits me down to the ground, where all three now lie (the suits, the hussies). And I would be lying if I claimed that I felt it was unfitting in a fitting room. And I will be lying, soon, among the suits, if I don't get my breath back.