The air was brisk that morning but Vicki cracked the window anyway. Her curls, ever ready to riot, seized upon the opportunity. They danced in the wind like the tendrils that dangle from a weaver-bird nest.
Something awful or wonderful
“Something, or something awful or something wonderful was certain to happen on every day in this part of Africa. Every morning when you woke it was as exciting as though you were going to compete in a downhill ski race or drive a bobsled on a fast run. Something, you knew, would happen, and probably before eleven o’clock.”