When a quiet soul I once knew visited a minor theocracy, she did something uncharacteristic in her hotel room each night.

After a day on the tense streets, where each word and gesture was as invigilated as her sleeve-length, she had pent-up impulses to release. And so, alone at last, she found herself dancing and swearing for minutes at a time in a kind of ecstatic delirium. She had no previous (or subsequent) interest in such behaviour. It was precisely the bar on it that had created the urge.

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