Francis Worcester Doughty, Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars… (1892)
“ Instead of taking the street on which the consulate was situated, I had unwittingly turned down the next one, and now it seemed almost too late to repair my blunder, for the mob had turned the corner, and, catching sight of us, were rushing on like so many mad dogs, shouting as they came in a fashion that was anything but reassuring. “This is a bad business. We are going wrong!” I burst out. I could feel his hand tremble as he clutched my arm. “Don’t tell me that,” he panted. “You don’t know what it is to be differently made from other men. ”
