Dick: Morning, Vincent. How's it goin'?
Strudwick: Did you talk to your boy last night?
Dick: Yes. We talked, we laughed, we shared. Then there were the, uh, hugs, as usual. How'd it go with Alissa?
Strudwick: She came home, slammed the door in my face, and locked herself in her room.
Dick: Ooh. Ouch. Did she, by any chance, say that, uh, she hates you?
Strudwick: How'd you know that?
Dick: Call it fatherly intuition.
Strudwick: She said... She said... Oh, never mind.
Dick: Go on, Vincent. You can tell me.
Strudwick: She said, "why couldn't I be more like like you"?
Dick: Well, I can understand that. Some of us devote our time to our families, others opt instead to write books. I'm sure you made the right choice. Not for your daughter, of course, but for you.
Strudwick: This is awful!
Dick: No, don't worry. As the decades slip by, these wounds will scab over and harden into bitter scars. And you'll get together then, Vince. I know you'll have a good time then. [Dick dances after Strudwick leaves]