Working Weekend and Your Opinion Please

My weekend has been a busy one with regards to my writing.
I am pleased to announce I have finished my first draft of Chewy Chester Meets Wallis Worm (see Nissi Peters).

I am going to edit and send it out to agents. I will then see what the response is and if it is negative, I will self publish. I think the book has something to offer the little ones. I read a snippet to a young boy and the response was 95% positive. He wanted more pictures, so I have drawn some.

Ripper, My Love is undergoing changes. The main manuscript is staying as third person, but I am converting it into first person to see how it reads. I am amazed at how alive the story has become, for me I love reading about Kitty, but now I AM Kitty. I can 'feel' her emotions far more. Yet something is not right.

Here is a snippet of the original and the new up to the same point in the story. I wonder which one you prefer? Please leave your answer in the comments.

The Walk Home

Whitechapel, London 1888

Kitty shivered from the chill in the damp night air. She pulled her shawl closer around her neck and shoulders. She lost her balance and reached to steady herself against the wall.

If anyone had me they would have thought I had helped myself to the ale at Ma Parker's.

The further down the passageway she walked, the more pensive she became. Unconfirmed rumours circulated about a murdered local woman, it was the only conversation she had heard all day, and it sickened her. On every corner, groups stood and discussed the event. It was too close to home to be ignored. The knot in her stomach confirmed she had made the wrong decision to take this shortcut. The clip of her heels echoed as she hurried along the alleyway. Dark shadows moved around her, they were everywhere; they did nothing to help her nerves. Even the one of  her petite figure lurked tall and sinister. She would have preferred a real companion to escort her, not those who added to her fear. Every shadow that flitted across the brickwork made her glance over her shoulder. Nervous adrenalin kept her moving forward; it was too late to turn back.

Without warning someone grabbed her arm

 ***********************************

The hairs are on the rise along the back of my arms and neck. They prickle under my gown and damp air seeps through my shawl. I should have worn a heavier coat. What a mistake this is, a silly mistake. To walk down Potts lane in the dark is foolish route home, even the gas lamps add nothing to the sinister ambiance. They look down at me like the crows that peer with mean eyes from the trees at the cemetery. I left their creepiness not half an hour ago, and now feel that same sensation; a tingle at the base of my neck. Ten large shadows are staring at me. I know they are harmless, but my brain has failed to communicate this to my legs. They are shaking. The cobble stones are slippery and the walls are running with algae slime. An oval roof of dark brick makes it feel like a claustrophobic hole. Enclosed and suffocating. It is too late to turn back. The two lead sticks I am walking on refuse to move any faster. Arthur is waiting to start my reading lesson and I am an hour late. He will sulk, I hate it when he is moody. There is no reasoning with him when a dark mood hits him. He will understand that I dallied at mum’s graveside, but will still make me feel sorry for him. On hindsight I should have gone tomorrow morning, and carried out my deliveries this afternoon. Well no going back now and it was worth it, I had so many thoughts to share with her today. I know she listens, she has listened to me for five years, I feel it in my heart. Dad laughs but I have heard him talk to her when he thinks I am not listening.

Foggy light is making me squint, I can only see a few yards in front of me. My vision is usually perfect, but right now I have an understanding of how a blind man must feel. The mustard haze from the gas lamps is buzzing with moths. I hate them when they flap around my head. The bat that swooped around me earlier is another flapping animal I can do without on this journey home. It made me jump and slip, my ankle feels a little sore; my button boots are not made for long walks. My gown is probably ruined. When I hit the wall the slime would have marked the velvet. It feels heavier so I know the hem is sopping wet. What on earth possessed me to put on a good outfit to sit by a graveside is something someone else will have to answer, for I cannot. For once in my life I feel sorry for myself. I am miserable and cold. August feels like November. London rarely sees the sun. What I would give to feel one small ray on my face. It would be worth an outbreak of freckles.

The alleyway is getting darker. All day long I have heard nothing but people surmising about the latest news, a murdered prostitute. She was a local woman. It is so close to home, too close to home. What if the murderer is lurking around?

What the-?

******************* I would like you opinion, so please leave one. Grammar errors, big typo's, love it, hate it, anything is useful.  It will help me spend my time wisely. Thank you.