Our Hong Kong high-rise has a doorman. His main job is to get taxis for impatient residents and register suspicious visitors, and to do it all with a smile. Like a harried laboratory rabbit he responds instantly to sounds: the ringing of elevator doors about to burst open, the tromp of feet up the stairs, the crackle of the walkie-talkie used to call taxis, the swoosh of handbags and silk when a cackle of resident tai-tai's bustles by. Without his ears he would be blind.
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