Jennie Hennessy's days stretched long and gray in the clamorous warren of Samuelson's Shirtwaist Factory, where she stitched seams and dreams with equal fervor. From dawn's first bleak light until evening's bell, Jennie's fingers darted, piecing together blousy muslins and fine calicos for women who would never notice the hunch in the shoulders of the girls who made them.

The year was 1875, and New York's air tasted of soot and hope and salted peanuts from the street carts. By twenty-two, Jennie had mastered the art of silent yearning: She longed for something bigger than the threadbare boardinghouse she called home, bigger than the tight-lipped forewoman's ledger and the city's indifferent pulse.