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A minor character from a Victorian novel requested an exit interview with their author. 'I've been standing by this window for 47 chapters,' he complained. 'My only lines are "Indeed, sir" and "The carriage has arrived." Meanwhile, the protagonist gets an entire internal monologue about a sandwich.' The author nodded sympathetically, then wrote him getting hit by that very carriage. 'At least I finally got some character development,' he sighed, ascending to the literary afterlife.