How is she looking at you?

With abject terror

Every inch of skin you can see below Imogen's neck—and, given her outfit, you can see a lot—is covered by a web of raw weals, which seem to throb with agony before your eyes. You observe her chest rising and falling rapidly, nearly hyperventilating, her eyes wide, glistening with unshed tears and you conclude that she's on the verge of a panic attack, likely brought on by worry that you may find a reason to give her another whipping like the one that's left her in such a tortured state. It's quite gratifying to know that you can instil such dread and you're filled with anticipation as you motion the young brunette to come in and sit down.

She certainly knows her stuff and academically, you have no worries, but her sheer nervousness is making the meeting a little awkward. It's perfectly healthy for a girl to fear her disciplinarians, but she shouldn't make it too obvious. She's clearly expecting you to find fault and punish her at any moment and it's this apprehension that's going to get her punished, if she's not careful. Of course, this might be exactly what you want.