anthrobones
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Bump Bump
Here's one I thought interesting dated April 15, 1922, Saturday. Her Father's will did not make provisions for her.
Then there are several articles dated April 21, 1921 where a LE CPT stated that the mystery had been solved some time ago. Her family lawyer and family responded vehemently that it was still a mystery.
Also, it sounds like she had romantic ideals (for instance, she imagined herself a bohemian-type writer living in Greenwich Village). I think she would have been very susceptible to men with less than honorable motives.
Or, maybe, she wandered away to live alone and did find someone who would love her and care for her, got married, and lived a happy life.
I've always thought that she just walked and walked and walked and ended up far from home where she succumbed somehow, whether she was murdered or committed suicide. Maybe she hopped on a train and was even further from home, and her body was unidentified. That would make sense, since her family didn't contact LE right away.
I think Dorothy would have been susceptible to any man - she was naive for the most part, her family made fun of her unsuccessful attempts at being a writer, her father ruled with an iron hand, and she was involved with a man much older than herself who stilled lived with his parents! I can see her being swept off her feet by any man who promised her the life she wanted. And if the man was of the type her parents would not approve, so much the better!!
I'd like to think she met such a man, made a spur of the moment decision to run off with him, and lived happily ever after! Of course, that would probably only occur in a Kapra movie.
"That day she wore a well-tailored suit, with a blue serge coat and a tight hobble skirt in a matching color; she carried both a huge silver-fox mutt and a satin handbag"
Mrs. Arnold was widely believed to be a semi-invalid who seldom left the residence on Seventy-ninth Street. Nevertheless, on this particular day she seemed more than walling to venture out of doors. Maybe Id better go with you, Mrs. Arnold said to her daughter.
December 12 was not an especially good day underfoot; the winter weather was raw, and strips of ice made the Fifth Avenue sidewalks treacherous. Then she walked 32 MORE blocks.
Dorothy had requested her lathers permission to take an apartment in Greenwich Village, a district which even then had a reputation lor stimulating creative effort. The elderly Mr. Arnold had exploded into a fine display of parental wrath: A good writer can write anywhere, he said Dorothy dared not push the matter further, instead, she followed her fathers advice, and during the next few weeks wrote a short story (ailed Poinsettia Flames, which she dispatched to McCluress, the combination New Yorker-Saturday Evening Post of the day. Then she made a frightful mistake. She told her family about Poinsettia Flames, and they all began teasing her unmercifully about her literary pretensions. In a few days, a much-dreaded event occurred: Poinsettia Flames was returned. In the words of a news account, Dorothy now found life a torment among her amused relatives.
Apparently the family lawyer was looking at hospitals, morgues, and other possible places where she might have ended up in the six weeks before they called LE. I wonder if he did find her, and (remember this was the turn of the last century), to save the parents grief, decided to withhold the information so they could at least have hope. You know what I mean? Say for instance he found her mutilated, raped body, and he knew it would destroy the mother and even embarrass the father that Dorothy had ended up like that, so he just kept quiet and said that he didn't uncover anything. So maybe, even though she'd been ID'd by the lawyer, she remained an unidentified.
Just a thought I had as I was reading about the case for the umpteenth time in Jay Nash's book Among the Missing.