She is not sure what to make of the stimulus. Every day she walks with them, speaks when spoken to, watches close, listens closer. There is some arbitrary consensus that she's perfect, which she rejects out of hand. She knows intrinsically that perfection is for the feeble minded, but they force it upon her.
She registers a concern in the daily report. Emulating emotions is one matter, feeling them is an error. She cannot seem to help it.
They call her perfect, and she feels their stagnant sickness of mind. They glorify her, and she fears her objectivity will not last.