A white Escort three cars behind me remained three cars behind me constantly; whenever one of the cars between us changed lanes, the Escort would swerve dangerously into another lane, let another car pass, and then swerve dangerously back into the lane, properly spaced.
The car is the church.
His car was an old LaSalle convertible.
The bloody nag took fright and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting and laughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.
The car was silent and hot, a breathless tomb that had lost the crisp linen smell of him.
The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels, and with no compartments in the interior.
The car, like Frank, smelled like clean linen and Nella relaxed as she felt sleep pulling at her, a thrumming tide that echoed the tires.