Not daring to put the suit away, for fear of contaminating the rest of my apparel, I hung it over the back of a chair by the window.
But the incoming breeze, instead of carrying the aroma away, wafted it directly toward me. It was certainly strong. It fairly assaulted the nostrils. One good whiff of that vicious chemical was almost enough to make you dizzy.
It treated me as if I were a spot.
I picked up a book and tried to read, but could not concentrate my attention.
The spot-destroyer was continually interrupting. My head was spinning so that I could hardly see.
I realized that the life of a spot was not a happy one.
Thinking that smoking might help, I was about to light a cigarette when I remembered reading in the papers of people who struck matches in fume-filled rooms and then were blown blocks and blocks without knowing what hit them. So I gave that up, and sat a while dejected.
Then another scary thought came into my mind. What if I should be asphyxiated? I pictured myself being found dead in bed, having been extinct for hours and hours, and the mournfulness of it broke me all up.
Overcome with emotion and spot-destroyer, I gathered a few things into a suitcase and went out to spend the night at a hotel.